My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 446: “Make Me Yours”

He knew the building before the Seraph’s headlights even kissed the entrance.

The Void Towers.

Three obsidian spines thrusting up from the financial district’s concrete heart like a trident driven through the city’s chest—fifty stories each, linked at the crown by sky bridges that pulsed pale blue at night, turning the whole complex into something alive, something breathing, something that watched you back.

Two towers were offices for firms too powerful to need logos on the glass. The third was residential.

Units starting at seven million and climbing fast enough to make most people nauseous.

One of the most expensive addresses in Paradise outside Sovereign Tower itself.

And owned by the Ashfords. Of course. The name wasn’t on the building. It didn’t have to be.

Everyone who lived here knew whose gravity they orbited. Everyone who visited knew they’d been granted temporary parole from the rest of the world.

Phei eased the Seraph into the underground garage. The matte pink finish looked almost obscene next to the rows of matte-black Pentleys and gunmetal Rollses (all Park engineering with that obscene winged P)—like bubblegum graffiti on a cathedral.

Patricia waved lazily toward her spot—there, babe, left side—and he slotted the car in with surgical precision, killed the engine, and let the sudden silence settle like dust after an explosion.

The crystalline seats dimmed. The winged P faded from the dash. The car exhaled once, softly, then went still.

Patricia was already out, heels clicking on concrete with the easy confidence of someone who’d never once doubted she belonged exactly here.

The lobby was marble veined with muted gold, lighting so soft it felt like the building was trying not to wake anyone important. The elevator ride was silent, fast, private. Twenty-seventh floor hallway swallowed their footsteps in deep charcoal carpet that probably cost more per square metre than most people’s rent.

None of it registered.

What registered was the door she opened.

Patricia’s apartment was dark.

Not poorly lit. Chosen dark. Curated. Paid-for-in-full dark.

Deep navy walls that drank light instead of bouncing it back. Black polished floors so glossy they doubled the entire room—ceiling, furniture, windows, everything mirrored upside-down like a shadow world living directly beneath the real one.

Thin blue LED strips traced the ceiling perimeter in unbroken, surgical lines, bathing everything in cool electric twilight that turned skin, glass, and leather into something between midnight ocean and the inside of a glacier.

The living room opened wide—generous for a twenty-seventh-floor unit, not sprawling-penthouse generous, but enough to breathe. A massive L-shaped sectional in near-black charcoal dominated the centre—low, clean, no frivolous cushions, no artfully draped blankets, no screaming “look how feminine I am” decor.

Just the sofa.

A glass coffee table whose surface looked like frozen Hell River at night. One single vase—white orchids, simple, the only living thing in the room that wasn’t breathing.

Phei stood in the entrance and stared.

This wasn’t what he’d pictured.

Most women in their late twenties—single, successful, seven-million-dollar view—would have softened the edges. Warm creams. Velvet textures. Wall art that whispered “I read books and travel and have taste.”

Instagram-approved femininity layered on like expensive perfume.

Patricia hadn’t bothered.

Her apartment looked like something he would live in.

Dark palette. Blue underglow. Ruthless minimalism that refused to apologise for itself. Every surface screamed money without shouting—quiet, severe, expensive silence. Nothing performed. Nothing decorated for guests.

Just function, atmosphere, and the unspoken rule: this space exists for me, not for your approval.

And the view.

He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling glass. Hell River lay right there—closer, wider, more alive than it had been from the Romano’s fifteenth floor.

From the café it had been a beautiful ribbon. From here it was a dark, living vein—surface shivering with golden reflections from the financial district, long fingers of light stretching bank to bank like the river was trying to pull itself together across the black.

He understood now why she sat here every night. Why the worst days became survivable in front of this window.

The river didn’t give a fuck about your trauma, your failures, your carefully curated breakdowns. It just moved—endless loop from Hell Paradise Lake through the city and back again—patient, circular, indifferent.

Seven million dollars bought you the closest thing to peace money could purchase: something bigger than your problems that refused to stop.

Downtown Paradise glowed along both banks. Bridges strung with light. Buildings mirrored in water. Water mirrored in Patricia’s black floors. An infinite recursion of gold and black—river into glass into floor into ceiling into river again.

He turned.

Patricia had slipped into the kitchen. Cabinet opened. Water ran. Small, domestic sounds of a woman who’d just put away five bottles of wine and was now quietly, privately, taking care of herself without fanfare.

She returned with a single glass of water. Not wine. Not a nightcap. Water. Clear. Simple. The choice of someone who knew exactly how many glasses separated “tipsy and fun” from “hungover and regretting everything.”

She set it on the glass table. The surface caught it—doubled it—the glass and its twin meeting in perfect symmetry like a mirror trick.

Then she sat against him.

Her body found his the way it had been finding his all night—gravitational, inevitable, like she’d been orbiting too long and had finally surrendered to the pull.

She curled into his side.

Tucked her legs beneath her. Laid her head on his chest, ear pressed to suit fabric, hand flattening over his sternum.

She could hear his heartbeat.

He knew she could because her breathing changed—slowed, deepened, matched the rhythm under her palm like she was tuning her pulse to his. Blue ceiling light traced the bare curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her neck, the soft swell of her breast where the halter dress clung like liquid shadow.

The river moved beyond the glass—slow, hypnotic.

The apartment was so quiet he could hear the water in her glass settle, molecule by molecule.

“Phei,” she said.

Soft. Looking up at him. Chin on his chest. Eyes warm, clear, the alcohol burned down to something steady and molten underneath—hunger wrapped in certainty.

She could feel his heat. The hard planes of muscle beneath the suit.

The heartbeat that was racing faster than it had any right to for a boy who could split the sky but couldn’t figure out how to stay calm when soft curves pressed against him like this—when full breasts rose and fell with every breath, when the slit in her dress had ridden high enough to bare the smooth length of her thigh against his leg, when the faint scent of her perfume mixed with wine and warm skin was suddenly everywhere.

She shifted. Just enough. Her body sliding closer—breasts pressing fuller against his ribs, hip rolling in a slow, deliberate arc that dragged silk over his thigh, the heat of her core radiating through thin fabric like a promise.

“Can you take me, finally?”

The words came out quiet. The voice of a woman who’d waited all week since the game day for this exact moment and had decided it fit.

She lifted her chin higher. Lips parted just enough to show the wet gleam inside. Her hand slid down his chest—slow, deliberate—fingers tracing the hard ridges of his abs through the shirt, lower, until her palm rested flat over the growing bulge straining against his trousers.

“Make me yours.”

Her thumb brushed the outline of him—once, teasingly light—then pressed down with firm, knowing pressure.

The blue light caught the flush rising on her throat, the way her nipples had hardened visibly against the thin black halter, the slow, hungry way her thighs pressed together like she was already aching for the stretch, the fill, the claim.