Novel Full Chapter 445: Three Million Reasons
Chapter 445: Three Million Reasons
He walked around to the driver’s side. Opened the door. Sat down.
And immediately forgot Patricia existed for three glorious, stupid seconds.
Not flashy.
Just… shimmering. Like someone had taken a clear night sky, folded it into a cockpit, and said, “Yeah, this is how rich people sit now.”
The seats drank in every streetlight and neon sign from outside and multiplied them into tiny trapped stars that danced across the upholstery whenever he breathed.
It was the perfect mirror for Patricia. Feminine without fragility. Beautiful without begging for approval. Power and elegance fused so seamlessly that the car didn’t feel designed for a woman—it felt designed by someone who understood women like Patricia didn’t need permission to be both lethal and lovely.
The dashboard was straight-up sci-fi cosplay. A seamless panoramic screen curved from door to door like the car had swallowed a movie theater.
Holographic gauges floated in pink-and-white depth—speed, revs, nav—shifting perspective every time he tilted his head.
A central touchscreen the size of a small country rose from the console at a smug angle, blacker than sin and glossier than fresh oil. The P-with-wings logo pulsed at the top—not glowing, just existing, like the car was quietly breathing and judging his life choices.
Phei ran his palm across the dash. Cold. Impossibly smooth. Material that probably cost more per square inch than his entire childhood.
Three million dollars.
The number landed like a polite throat-clear from the universe. Not a crash. Just a slow, steady pressure on his sternum—one gram at a time—until he had to admit it out loud in his own head:
I am the poorest person in my own harem.
The penthouse? Melissa’s. The Romano Café dinner? Melissa’s card. Every car he’d ridden in since the system flipped his life—Maddie’s, Sierra’s, sent by Melissa or Sovereign Tower’s service cars, the one he’d totaled during the awakening—Melissa’s.
The bet money from the basketball game was technically his, sure.
But a three million dollars car? That was a number he’d only seen in news headlines about people who weren’t him.
Cosmic punchline delivered. No rimshot required.
Any other night he’d have gone feral—cycled through every ambient lighting mode until the cabin looked like a rave, found the “void your warranty” drive setting, and spent twenty minutes discovering exactly how many traffic laws a three-million-dollar pink missile could break before the police gave up and just saluted.
Not tonight.
Tonight the poverty sat on his lap like an unwanted passenger. Quiet. Patient.
Reminding him that the crystalline seat cradling his ass belonged to a woman who had earned it, while he was just the seventeen-year-old boyfriend she’d asked to chauffeur her home and fuck her.
Without saying that last one.
He adjusted the seat. The mirrors. Wrapped his hands around the white leather wheel—winged P embossed under his thumbs like a royal seal—and felt the faint tremor of something alive waiting for permission.
He pressed the ignition.
The Seraph didn’t start. It woke up.
A deep, bone-rattling vibration rolled up from the chassis, through the seat, into his spine, and settled in his teeth like a predator clearing its throat. Not a roar—not yet—just a purr so low and vicious it sounded personally offended by silence.
The dashboard ignited. Holographic gauges bloomed.
The crystalline seats pulsed once—blue-white light rippling through every embedded star like the car had just taken its first breath and liked the taste.
The steering wheel shivered under his palms. Eager. Hungry. Politely asking—for now—to be unleashed.
Phei let out a small, involuntary chuckle.
Pure, dumb, animal joy. The kind that had nothing to do with the seven-year-old still crying in his chest or Victoria’s tears or the cold thing waiting to snap.
Just a boy sitting in three million dollars of Korean rage and feeling it breathe.
He pressed the accelerator.
The Seraph launched.
Not accelerated. Not pulled away. Launched—like a champagne cork made of spite and horsepower.
G-force pinned him into the crystalline seat so hard he briefly wondered if the upholstery was going to swallow him whole.
The city smeared into horizontal streaks—gold, white, neon bleeding into lines.
The engine stopped purring and started howling—full, unholy scream of whatever demon Park Motors had duct-taped under the hood.
Fifty meters disappeared in the time it took Phei to register that he’d almost killed them both.
The glass office building to his left rushed the windshield like it had a personal grudge. One heartbeat from turning matte pink into abstract art on lobby marble.
His reflexes that weren’t entirely human anymore kicked in. Hands moved before thought. The Seraph snapped straight, tyres biting pavement with a growl that sounded almost disappointed it hadn’t gotten to embed itself in architecture.
Patricia laughed. Head thrown back against the crystalline headrest, hair exploding everywhere, the sound bright and fearless and just unhinged enough to match the car.
“Slow down,” she gasped between laughs. “Babe—slow down—you’re going to get us killed—”
She didn’t sound remotely convinced that slowing down was the correct life choice.
Phei eased off. The Seraph sulked back to its purr—reluctant, sulky, a predator being dragged off its kill mid-bite.
His heart was trying to escape through his ribs. Hands steady on the wheel. But inside? Absolute pandemonium.
I need a car of my own.
The thought arrived fully armoured.
It was not just a want but a biological necessity. Because he had just tasted what it felt like to command three million dollars of engineered fury—and the universe was never getting that knowledge back.
I need a car. And I need it yesterday.
He drove. Slower now. The Seraph behaving—mostly. Patricia warm beside him, hand resting on his thigh, head tilting toward his shoulder like gravity had finally found something worth obeying.
Hell River glinted somewhere to the left. The city opened ahead—welcoming them into its traffic like matte pink and crystalline death belonged exactly there.
Heading toward her apartment.
And whatever waited inside it.