"Mr. Castellanos." I shook his hand. "This is Isabella Rodriguez, My Wife."

"Ms. Rodriguez." He turned to her, and I watched him struggle not to stare. "A pleasure."

"Likewise," Isabella purred, and I felt Miguel's composure crack slightly.

"Please, sit." He gestured to chairs that probably cost five figures each. "Can I offer you anything? Water? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"We're fine," I said, settling into the chair like I'd been born to luxury. Isabella sat beside me, crossing her legs in a move that made Miguel forget whatever he'd been about to say.

He cleared his throat, returned to his desk. "So. You're interested in acquiring two of our penthouse suites."

"That's correct."

"I have to say, that's... unusual. Most buyers are looking for a single residence."

"I'm not most buyers."

His smile acknowledged that. "Clearly. Well, you're in luck—we currently have three penthouse units available. Would you like to tour them before making a decision?"

"All three."

"Excellent." He pressed a button on his desk. "I'll take you up personally."

The private elevator to the penthouse level required a key card and a code. Security theater, mostly, but it established the exclusivity. We rose in silence, Miguel stealing glances at us that he probably thought were subtle.

Fifty-first floor.

The doors opened to a private hallway—only four doors total, each leading to a different penthouse. The hallway itself was decorated like a museum, all subtle wealth and understated power.

Miguel led us to the first door, swiped his card, and stepped aside.

"After you."

We walked into money.

The entry alone was bigger than most apartments. Marble floors gave way to hardwood that gleamed like liquid honey. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows—three sides of uninterrupted glass looking out over LA like we owned it.

And in this moment, we kind of did.

The living space stretched thirty feet in every direction. Custom furniture that looked uncomfortable but probably cost more than cars. A kitchen that belonged in a five-star restaurant—marble counters, Wolf appliances, a wine fridge that could hold two hundred bottles.

The kind of kitchen that came with the assumption you'd never actually cook in it yourself.

"Four bedrooms, five bathrooms," Miguel narrated as we walked through. "Seven thousand square feet of interior space, plus a three-thousand-square-foot private terrace. Smart home system, custom climate control, soundproofing that makes this the quietest place in LA."

He showed us the master suite—a bedroom with its own fireplace, bathroom that looked like a spa, closet the size of a small house. The guest rooms were equally excessive, each with en-suite bathrooms that had probably bankrupted several small countries.

But it was the terrace that sold it.

Miguel opened the glass doors, and we stepped outside into private paradise.

Three thousand square feet of outdoor space, fifty-one floors above the city. Infinity pool that seemed to blend with the sky, lit from below so it glowed like liquid sapphire. Hot tub in the corner.

Full outdoor kitchen.

Seating areas with furniture that cost more than most people's living rooms.

And the view.

Los Angeles spread out beneath us like a circuit board of light and shadow. The city grid stretching to the horizon in every direction, mountains dark in the distance, the Pacific a hint of darkness beyond.

You could see everything from up here—downtown's towers, Hollywood's hills, the endless sprawl of wealth and poverty all mixed together.

"This is the Crown Jewel suite," Miguel said. "It's our finest property. Fifteen million."

I walked to the edge of the terrace, hands in my pockets, and just looked out. Isabella joined me, her hand finding mine.

"What do you think?" I asked her quietly.

"It's perfect," she breathed. "Peter, this is—"

"Yours." I squeezed her hand. "In your name. Isabella Rodriguez, sole owner."

She turned to look at me, eyes wide. "What?"

"You heard me." I pulled her closer. "I'm buying it in your name. One for you, the other one for..." I trailed off, letting her imagination fill the blank.

"Peter." Her voice cracked slightly. "That's—that's thirty million dollars if you but two."

"And?"

"And that's insane."

"So am I." I kissed her forehead. "You think I'm building an empire just for you guys to live in a regular house? No. My woman gets penthouses. Plural. In her name. End of discussion."

Miguel had diplomatically moved back inside, giving us privacy. Through the glass, I could see him pretending not to watch.

"Let's see the others," I said.

The second penthouse was similar in size but different in layout—more modern, all clean lines and minimalist aesthetic. Six thousand square feet, floor-to-ceiling windows, its own infinity pool on the terrace. The view was slightly different, facing more toward the ocean.

Also fifteen million.

The third was the largest—eight thousand square feet, technically taking up two floors connected by a private spiral staircase. This one had a full gym, home theater, and a rooftop pool that was somehow even more impressive than the others.

Eighteen million.

We returned to the first one—the Crown Jewel. I could already see Isabella living here, could picture her in that master suite, on that terrace, making this space her own.

"This one," I said to Miguel. "And the third one."

He blinked. "Both?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No, I just—" He composed himself. "That's thirty-three million dollars, Mr. Desiderion."

"I can count." I pulled out my phone, pretending to call. "ARIA, initiate the transfer. Thirty-three million to Celestial Grand Hotel's escrow account. Owner of both properties: Isabella Rodriguez. Sole proprietor."

"Transfer initiated, Master," ARIA's voice came through my earpiece. "Funds transferring from Liberation Holdings. Estimated completion: five seconds."

Miguel's phone buzzed. He looked at it, and his face went pale.

"Is there—is there a problem?" I asked innocently.

"No, I—" He stared at his screen. "The transfer just—you just sent thirty-three million dollars. Just now. While standing here."

"Was I supposed to wait?"

"No, I—" He shook his head like trying to clear it. "Most buyers need financing. Approval processes. Negotiations."

"Again, I'm not most buyers," I repeated. "Now, unless there's paperwork to sign, I believe these penthouses belong to Ms. Rodriguez?"

Isabella looked like she might faint.

The paperwork took an hour or so. Miguel brought in lawyers, had contracts drawn up, made sure everything was legal and binding. Isabella Rodriguez—sole owner of two penthouse suites worth thirty-three million dollars.

She signed the papers with shaking hands, and I watched her name appear on documents that made her a property owner in one of LA's most exclusive buildings.

When it was done, Miguel handed her two key cards.

"Welcome home, Ms. Rodriguez."

She took them, staring at the plastic cards like they might explode. Isabella stared at the key cards in her hands like they might disappear if she looked away.

"Come on," I said, standing. "Let's go see your new home properly."

Miguel cleared his throat. "Of course. The properties are yours now, Ms. Rodriguez. You're free to access them anytime."

We crossed to the penthouse elevator bank. Isabella swiped her new key card—it worked on the first try, because of course it did—and we rose toward the fifty-first floor.

The moment the elevator doors closed, sealing us in privacy, she finally spoke.

"Did that really just happen?"

"You're holding the key cards."

"I know, but—" She looked at them again. "Peter, you just spent thirty-three million dollars. On me. In an hour."

"Technically I spent it in about forty-five seconds. The hour was just paperwork."

"That's not better!" She laughed, a slightly hysterical edge to it. "You're insane."

"You've mentioned that." The elevator rose smoothly, the city dropping away beneath us. "But let me ask you something—do you like them?"

"Like them? Peter, they're—they're the most beautiful places I've ever seen."

"Then it was worth it." I pulled her closer. "Besides, you're my woman. You think I'm going to have you living anywhere less than perfect? Not happening."

She was quiet for a moment, leaning against me as the elevator climbed. Then: "The second one. You said one for us, one for...?"

"It is mine... Or—" I let the suggestion hang.

"Or for the other women," she finished quietly.

I laughed. That was actually true.

The elevator doors opened to the private hallway. Isabella swiped her card at the Crown Jewel's door, and it clicked open.

We stepped inside.

Our home.

The floor-to-ceiling windows showed LA spreading out beneath us like a kingdom waiting to be claimed. The city lights twinkled in the growing darkness, and through the glass doors, the infinity pool glowed like liquid sapphire.

Isabella walked to the windows, key cards still clutched in her hand, and just stared.

"You're building an empire," she said softly.

"We're building an empire," I corrected. "And empires need proper city headquarters."

She turned in, looking up at me with those dark eyes.

And in two weeks? In two weeks, I own the whole fucking building. I kissed her forehead. Not just penthouses. The entire hotel. Every floor. Every room. Every dollar it can generate.

"This is just the beginning," she whispered.

"This just the beginning," I agreed. urning her around.

Blood pounded with the thrill—thirty million dollars dripping down her thighs as I hiked her dress. "No panties?" I laughed against her lips. "Good girl."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.