My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 435: “I am Going to Fuck Her”

Phei stepped out of Unit 70D and let the door click shut behind him with the finality of a safe locking.

The corridor stretched away—same warm, expensive lighting, same sound-devouring carpet, same sterile anonymity the Sovereign Tower charged a fortune for and delivered with the cold efficiency of a Swiss bank vault.

He leaned back against the door, head tilted to the ceiling, and just… breathed.

Was that really my first time with actual real kinks? Like—actually? All of it?

The red leather, the black leather, the restraints that cost more than most people’s rent, the camera tripod angled like a silent voyeur, the graduated dildo collection displayed on black foam like some high-end assassin’s toolkit, the ball gag still faintly scented with Amber’s lip gloss, the blindfold, the flogger that had left such pretty pink lattice on her thighs, the edging sessions that had her sobbing around the gag, the denial that turned her into a trembling, dripping mess begging through tears—

First time? The truth sat in his skull like a corrupted file too big for the RAM, refusing to load properly.

Because here’s the ridiculous part.

He’d genuinely believed—seventeen-year-old, freshly escaped from piss-stained closets and charity-case beatings—that the night he’d fucked Melissa on Harold’s desk would be the wildest peak of his life.

And who could blame me, huh? Who wouldn’t think that was the ceiling?

Phei—punching bag, shoe-removal-required guest, the kid Harold treated like defective furniture—balls-deep in his own aunt while Harold’s curved monitor watched like a disappointed parent.

They’d broken that monitor too, spectacularly, mid-thrust. Shattered glass, scattered pixels, one very expensive casualty.

Melissa first. Monitor second.

One metaphorical demolition, one literal.

Both profoundly satisfying

.

That single night had rewritten the atomic structure of a marriage. Turned a household into a live demolition zone—that the boy he’d beaten for a decade was now the man who owned everything Harold thought belonged to him.

And Phei had only gotten more creative since then.

Floating the bastard by his skull. Ripping the sky open over Main Paradise until Legacy patriarchs kilometres away woke up soaked in their own piss.

He’d torn Harold’s world apart, claimed every woman in it, and strolled into the void like it was a Sunday walk.

And the universe had shrugged and said, Yeah, that tracks.

And then—after all of that—he’d just walked out of the most exquisite, depraved, perfectly orchestrated kink session of his life with a girl he’d never in a million years pegged for it.

Amber Castellano.

Amber.

The cultivated one. The well-mannered one. The girl who blushed at mildly suggestive jokes in public, clutched textbooks to her chest like armour, wore cardigans to events where every other Legacy princess was basically wearing body glitter and desperation.

The blonde who radiated nice-girl force field so strongly boys stared but never dared approach.

Sweet, shy, wouldn’t-say-shit-if-she’s-in-public Amber.

Who—for years—had secretly fantasised about being collared, leashed, gagged, flogged, denied, degraded on camera, and stretched around toys thicker than her delicate wrist.

Life, as it turned out, was relentlessly, gleefully more interesting than he’d ever given it credit for.

He pushed off the door, rolled his shoulders, felt the lingering ache in his palms from gripping leather handles and silken hair.

The corridor led to the elevator—quiet, indifferent, obscenely expensive.

Amber had somehow slipped out of her family’s locked-down estate to book this unit. He didn’t know the logistics.

That was her beautiful chaos

to wrangle.

All he cared about was the way she’d looked on her knees, mascara-streaked, drooling around the gag, camera light painting red lines across her trembling thighs while she begged—muffled, desperate—for more.

In a way it was a training of it’s own.

And back at the Castellano estate right now, her mother was almost certainly doing what she did best: sipping chilled Pinot at noon, judging everyone within screaming distance, being simultaneously the rudest and an insufferably gorgeous woman in all of Paradise.

Ms. Adriana.

Mother. Daughter.

The thought clicked into place like a key turning in oiled tumblers.

What a picture that would make.

The girl he’d just broken into a quivering, camera-ready, drooling puddle of submission—and the woman who’d made her. The same woman who’d once leaned across a dinner table, wine glass in hand, guests frozen mid-bite, and said straight to Phei’s face: “I don’t know why you keep this charity case around, Melissa. There are services for this sort of thing.”

Ms. Adriana Castellano.

The undisputed final boss of entitled Paradise bitches. Brett’s mother. Amber’s mother. The woman who’d once hurled a half-drunk latte at him because it was “too cold” after she’d spent forty-five minutes monologuing.

Who looked at him like something she’d scrape off the sole of her Louboutins with a grimace.

I am going to fuck her.

Not just fuck her.

Ruin her.

And when the time came—when those ice-blue eyes finally cracked and her regal spine bowed and her perfect, cruel mouth opened in a scream that had nothing to do with disdain—he would make damn sure she remembered exactly who had taught her daughter how to beg so beautifully.

He’d known he’d fuck her since the day he’d fucked Melissa raw on Harold’s desk—since she’d pressed her sweat-slick mouth to his shoulder and whispered, breath hot and conspiratorial, that she would help him take the whole circle.

The wine-at-eleven Paradise wives. The same women who now pretended not to notice when their daughters walked past them with his scent on their skins.

Ms. Adriana Castellano was at the crown jewel of that glittering, venomous little coven. The one Melissa had been quietly manoeuvring toward for some time like a chess master setting up a discovered attack.

Then Amber had sat in the class like she still owned the world, chin high, voice sweet poison: “Be my boy toy.”

As though the phrase could ever apply to what he was. As though she had any right to demand anything like from him at all.

That moment had cracked open the second route. Not just Melissa’s long con into Adriana’s silk sheets—Amber’s too.

Discipline the daughter until she crawled, collared and leaking, exactly as she begged to before getting the mother.

Two elegant roads to the same screaming, ruined destination.

Melissa had told him yesterday, curled against him in the penthouse kitchen, his arm around her waist like ownership while Delilah pretended to scroll on her phone and definitely wasn’t eavesdropping.

Melissa had already moved the first piece: brought Adriana to Crimson Eden that night.

Had her in the building, champagne in hand, lips already parting for the introduction that would start the dominoes falling.

Too bad the evening had detonated instead.

Club turned slaughterhouse. Emily pulped. David shattered. Three Legacy princelings reduced to wet red sacks of meat. Sky ripped open like wet paper. Harold dangling by his own skull like a grotesque piñata.

Not exactly the sophisticated seduction Melissa had scripted.

But she’d only smiled—that warm-on-top, scalpel-underneath smile—and promised him the next plan would be delicious.

He believed her.

Melissa didn’t miss twice.

Still, with every Legacy estate in paranoid lockdown and the council playing dead, Adriana could simmer on the back burner. The board was already set. Amber was his—

The mother would follow. Gravity worked that way now.

For the moment, though, he had somewhere else to be.