The Celestial Grand rose from downtown LA like a monument to old money and older ambitions. Fifty-two stories of glass and steel that caught the sunset and threw it back at the city in shades of gold and amber.

The architecture was that perfect blend of classic elegance and modern excess—art deco bones wrapped in contemporary skin, the kind of building that cost more to maintain than most hotels made in profit.

Which explained why it was dying.

But you wouldn't know it from the outside. The circular driveway was pristine marble, the landscaping looked like it had its own full-time staff of twenty, and the valet stand gleamed under strategically placed lighting that made everything look like a movie set.

I pulled the AMG One into the entrance, and the engine note—that beautiful, violent purr—echoed off the building's facade like a battle cry.

Every head turned.

The valets stopped mid-conversation. A couple getting out of their Bentley froze. Even the doorman, who probably saw supercars daily, did a double-take.

But that wasn't what made them stare.

I'd shifted to Eros mode during the drive, letting the transformation ripple through me while Isabella slept. Now I stepped out of the car, and the Lust Presence hit the crowd like a physical wave.

Six-foot-three of supernatural perfection in all black— suit that fit like it had been painted on, crisp white shirt open at the collar, Patek Philippe catching the light on my wrist. My hair was styled in that effortlessly perfect way that said I'd either spent an hour on it or just rolled out of bed post-sex.

I walked around to Isabella's door and opened it.

She stepped out like she was walking a red carpet, and honestly? She might as well have been.

Black lace dress that hugged every curve, slit up to mid-thigh, the kind of outfit that made straight women question things and straight men forget their wives' names. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, and she'd touched up her makeup during the drive—smoky eyes, red lips, the works.

She took my offered arm, and we stood there for a moment, letting them look.

The Lust Presence did its work. I could feel it radiating outward, that invisible field of desire and hunger that made people stupid. The women's pupils dilated. The valet closest to us actually swayed slightly, like she'd been hit with a contact high.

"Mr.?" One of the valets finally found her voice, though it came out strangled.

"That's..." I handed him the keys, and her hand shook when she took them. "Be careful with her. She bites."

"Y-yes sir."

Isabella's fingers tightened on my arm as we walked toward the entrance, and I felt her smile against my shoulder. "You're terrible."

"I'm efficient. There's a difference."

The doorman nearly tripped opening the door for us, his eyes locked on Isabella like she was the last woman on earth. She didn't even glance at him.

We stepped inside, and the lobby hit like a architectural orgasm.

Thirty-foot ceilings.

A chandelier that probably cost more than most houses—thousands of crystals catching and throwing light in every direction, creating this shifting constellation overhead. The floor was Italian marble in black and gold, polished so perfectly you could see your reflection.

Columns rose like ancient temples, wrapped in gold leaf that had to be real because fake gold didn't glow like that.

To the left, a lounge area with velvet furniture the color of wine, intimate seating arrangements around a fireplace that burned real wood despite this being LA in not-winter. To the right, an art gallery wall showcasing pieces that looked suspiciously like original Lichtensteins and Warhols.

Straight ahead, the concierge desk stretched like an altar to luxury—more marble, more gold, staffed by three people in uniforms so crisp they probably had to buy new ones daily.

The space smelled like money.

Not cologne or perfume—just that indefinable scent of wealth. Fresh flowers that cost more than car payments. Wood polish that required specialists. Air that had been filtered and climate-controlled to exact specifications.

And it was all slowly dying because the heirs didn't give a shit.

Their loss. My gain.

We walked through the lobby, and I felt every eye track us. Business executives. Wealthy tourists. Staff trying to pretend they weren't staring. The Lust Presence made it impossible not to look, and the visual—me in all black, Isabella in that dress, moving through the space like we owned it—just sealed the deal.

A woman in a Chanel suit actually walked into a column, her eyes locked on us.

The concierge desk waited at the back of the lobby, and behind it stood a young woman who'd probably been hired for her ability to maintain professional composure under any circumstances.

That composure shattered the moment she saw us.

Her mouth literally fell open. Eyes widening. Breath catching. The pen in her hand froze mid-air like she'd been paused.

We reached the desk.

She kept staring.

"Excuse me," I said politely.

Nothing. Her gaze was locked on my face like she was trying to memorize it for later.

"Hello?"

Still nothing. I could practically see her brain trying to reboot.

"Miss?"

A small whimper. Was she—yeah, she was holding her breath.

"Hey." I snapped my fingers gently.

She gasped, jerking like she'd been electrocuted, and suddenly became very interested in the computer screen in front of her.

Her face flushed crimson from chest to hairline.

"I—I'm so—" She stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Welcome to the Celestial Grand. How may I—how may I help you today?"

Her voice trembled despite the professional script, and her fingers shook slightly on the keyboard.

"I have an appointment," I said, keeping my voice smooth. "Regarding the penthouse purchase."

"Oh!" Her eyes snapped up to mine again, then immediately dropped like she'd looked at the sun. "You must be—you must be Mr. Desiderion. Mr. Eros Desiderion."

She'd remembered. Fast. Which meant she was the one ARIA had made the appointment with, and I was apparently memorable enough that she'd been anticipating this all day.

Also, I was the only person crazy enough to buy two penthouses.

"That's me," I confirmed.

"Of course! Of course." She fumbled with something under the desk, her professionalism warring with the fact that she could barely look at me without forgetting how to breathe. "The manager—he's been expecting you. If you'll just—if you could follow me?"

She came around the desk on legs that looked uncertain about holding her weight, thin and delicate in the severe heels she wore with practiced precision. She was mid-twenties, her honey-blonde hair twisted into an elegant knot that exposed the long, graceful column of her neck.

The silk shell she wore was a neutral beige, but it clung to the subtle curve of her ribs and the soft swell of her breasts, hinting at a figure that was trim and toned without being obvious. Her pencil skirt, a tasteful grey, hugged a narrow waist before flaring over hips that were undeniably womanly, a gentle counterpoint to the fragility of her legs.

The delicate diamond studs in her ears and the thin gold bracelet on her wrist weren't just accessories; they were quiet, confident signatures of a girl who'd probably come from money herself.

She was, as I realized, the kind of girl they'd hired to add class to the place—a living, breathing piece of expensive art.

But right now, she looked like she was about to pass out.

"This way, please." She gestured toward an elevator bank that looked like it belonged in a palace. "The executive offices are on the forty-fifth floor."

We followed her, Isabella's heels clicking on the marble, my presence making everyone we passed stop and stare. The receptionist kept glancing back at us like she needed to confirm we were real.

In the elevator, she pressed the button for forty-five with shaking hands.

The doors closed.

Silence.

I could hear her trying not to hyperventilate.

"Rough day?" Isabella asked, amused.

"No! No, I—" She stopped, composed herself with visible effort. "It's been a normal day. Until—I mean—this is—" She gave up, pressing her lips together.

Isabella's shoulders shook with silent laughter against my arm.

The elevator rose smoothly, floor numbers ticking by on a discrete display. Through the glass walls, the city spread out below us, lights beginning to twinkle as dusk deepened into night.

Forty-fifth floor.

The doors opened to reveal a completely different aesthetic—less public opulence, more private power. Dark wood paneling. Subtle lighting. Art that whispered wealth instead of shouting it.

This was where the real business happened, away from the lobby's theater.

"Mr. Castellanos's office is just ahead," the receptionist said, her voice finally steadying now that we were away from crowds. "He's ready for you."

She led us down a hallway past executive offices with closed doors, nameplate brass gleaming in the low light. At the end, double doors stood open to reveal a corner office that had to have cost more to furnish than most people made in a decade.

A man in his fifties rose from behind a desk the size of a small car—silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of face that had closed billion-dollar deals and barely blinked. Miguel Castellanos, according to the nameplate.

But even he paused when he saw us.

The Isabella's beauty hit him, though he recovered faster than the receptionist. Years of professional composure versus supernatural attraction—it was almost fair.

"Mr. Desiderion." He came around the desk, hand extended. "Miguel Castellanos. Thank you for coming."

His handshake was firm, controlled, but I felt the slight hesitation. The way his eyes wanted to linger on Isabella but didn't. The way his smile was just a fraction too wide.

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