It had been a week since Meridian Agency.

Seven goddamn days since I'd walked out of Catherine Reynolds' office with thirty-three thousand SP sitting pretty in my account and the taste of Madison's aunt still ghosting my lips. A week since that basement meeting with Charlotte and ARIA where we'd mapped out the kind of tech that'd probably rewrite human history—or burn it down. Depends on who you ask.

And holy hell, what a week.

Now I was sitting across from Madison at a corner table in what was officially my Michelin two-star restaurant.

Seven million dollars of curated perfection I'd just bought like someone else might buy a coffee subscription. Three hours in and I still couldn't process it. The place was stupidly beautiful, the kind of soft-lit, airbrushed luxury that makes everyone look like they moisturize with tears of the poor. Conversations were quiet, the kind of quiet that costs money. Waiters glided around like well-dressed ghosts. The wine list had bottles that cost more than some people's tuition.

Vivienne and Amanda handled the paperwork through Liberation Holdings while I sat there pretending to be just another overpaid, slightly bored rich kid on a date. Madison looked like sin wrapped in designer—every inch of her whispering, You'll regret this, but not enough to stop.

Ashley and Emma Reeves had joined us earlier but dipped the moment the food coma hit, retreating to Madison's baby Rolls outside. Probably scrolling through TikTok or texting friends about how their night "lowkey felt like a movie." Which, to be fair, it kinda did.

"Shall we go?" Madison asked, eyes locking onto mine with that unspoken, deadly promise that definitely didn't involve sleep.

I grabbed the bouquet of white roses I'd brought—because even digital-age monsters know romance still slaps sometimes—and stood. "Yeah, before I start redoing the menu and firing chefs."

She smirked. "You've owned the place for, what, three hours?"

"I'm efficient."

The Rolls was waiting at the curb, glossy as a black hole, the twins visible behind tinted glass—lit screens painting their faces like some influencer séance. Madison looped her arm through mine, perfume wrapping around me like a secret, and for a second I almost forgot everything else. Almost.

But my brain doesn't do peace. It does replays. And this week? This week was one long fever dream of power plays, upgrades, and emotional whiplash.

TUESDAY — THE RIVERA GIFT

The week after buying the penthouse on Monday had started with Sable Rivera. Because of course it did.

Got her text Monday night. Just a casual "We need to talk." Which, from Sable, translates to "prepare for psychological warfare in high heels."

Tuesday, she showed up looking like Wall Street had a crush on her. Cream silk blouse—probably eight hundred bucks. Tailored black pants that screamed "I bill by the minute." Heels sharp enough to stab an ego. Minimal jewelry, diamond studs, a watch that whispered old money.

She looked like danger wrapped in dividends.

"Mr. Desiderion," she said, extending her hand, all polished warmth and unspoken threat. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

"Call me Eros." I took her hand, soft skin, firm grip, the kind that tells you she could ruin your life and file it under miscellaneous business expenses. "Appreciate the invite. Gotta admit, I'm curious what I did to earn a personal summons from the Empress's right hand."

She smiled. Not flirty. Strategic. "Business first, huh?"

We were in the Hotel's private lobby—high ceilings, subtle jazz, enough marble to make God jealous. The kind of space designed to make poor people feel like intruders.

"The partnership between Quantum Tech and Rivera Next Media has been…" she paused, like she was choosing a word she could legally use. "Transformative."

I raised a brow. "Your stocks jumped twenty percent. That kind of transformative?"

"Twenty-two, actually. And still climbing." She slid a tablet across the table—graphs, numbers, glowing proof of her empire expanding. "Your API auction coverage was brilliant strategy. We became the source—everyone else had to get their info from us. CNN, TechCrunch, Bloomberg—they all quoted Rivera as the authority."

"High risk, high reward," I said. "Could've backfired if the auction flopped."

"But it didn't." She leaned in, eyes glinting. "The software was revolutionary. The bidders—CEOs, international buyers, tech giants clawing for access—it was like watching capitalism in heat. Twelve million live viewers, Eros. For a software auction. Do you understand how insane that is?"

I grinned. "Tommy's work sells itself."

"As does yours." She set down the tablet and leaned against the edge of her desk, casual but calculated, the movement of someone who knows every angle of her silhouette. "The Empress is impressed. Grateful. You've opened doors we didn't even know could still open. We're getting offers to cover political summits, awards, global conferences. Everyone wants Rivera because we proved we can make the boring world look sexy."

I couldn't help it—I laughed. "So basically, you turned coding into porn for rich people."

She smirked. "Exactly. And you're the man who made it possible."

And just like that, the air between us shifted—thick, charged, full of the kind of tension that could start wars or partnerships, depending on how you tilt the glass.

But...

"So," I said, leaning back in my chair, watching her like a wolf that'd already guessed the trap. "What's the catch, Sable? You don't do random meetings. Not your style."

She smiled — that calm, dangerous kind of smile people use when they've already won something. "No catch."

Her assistant appeared out of nowhere, like rich people's versions of teleportation, holding a sleek garment bag and a small box that looked like it had been handcrafted by Swiss angels.

"The Empress wanted to express her gratitude properly," Sable said, tone light, businesslike. "A gift."

She unzipped the garment bag halfway, just enough to flash a sliver of dark fabric that screamed money. "Ten suits. Custom made. Appointment's already set at Huntsman & Sons — Savile Row. They'll fly a tailor to Los Angeles to measure you personally. Only the best."

She placed the garment bag down with the reverence of a priest handling relics, then opened the box. Two watches caught the light — Patek Philippe. The kind of watches that didn't tell time; they told bloodlines. Probably a hundred grand apiece, minimum.

"This is a very expensive thank-you," I said, voice flat but amused, because what the hell else do you say when someone just casually drops two luxury timepieces on you like after-dinner mints?

Sable didn't even blink. "The partnership brought in fifty million in new revenue this month. Ten suits and two watches is a bargain."

I looked at the suits, the watches, then at her. That's when it clicked.

"The Empress wants to meet me."

She didn't even pretend to deny it. Her smile sharpened. "She's… curious. About the man who turned a PR nightmare into a global event. About the mind behind Quantum Tech's next big launch. About you, Eros Velmior Desiderion."

"And if I wanted to meet her?"

"Then I'd arrange it." She stepped closer — close enough that her perfume hit me like a slow drug. Something dark and expensive, probably five hundred bucks an ounce, the kind of scent that made you think of secrets whispered against marble walls. The Taboo Aura inside me hummed in recognition, subtle and teasing.

"But the Empress is selective," she continued, eyes flicking up, deliberate. "She doesn't meet just anyone. You'd have to be… worth her time."

I tilted my head. "And am I?"

"That's what she's trying to determine." Her gaze didn't waver. There was something else under all that corporate polish — curiosity, interest, maybe even attraction she was too well-trained to act on. "Personally? I think you're very worth her time."

I smiled then — slow, knowing, the kind of smile that says I could ruin us both if I wanted to. "Tell the Empress I accept her gifts. Gratefully. And that I'd be honored to meet her… whenever she decides the time is right."

"I'll pass the message along." She stepped back, just enough space for professionalism to reassert itself, though her eyes lingered a second longer than they should've. "The tailor will contact you by Wednesday. Afternoon appointment work for you?"

"Wednesday's perfect."

I took the gifts, offered her a polite thank-you that had just enough flirt under it to make her blink, and lingered another fifteen minutes trading verbal jabs that tasted like wine and hidden agendas. She played her part beautifully — warm enough to keep me interested, controlled enough to remind me she was dangerous.

I knew the game. This wasn't gratitude. This was bait — silk-wrapped, diamond-studded bait. The Empress was testing me, measuring how deep the hook could go before I'd bite.

And damn right, I was going to bite.

After that, I headed to Voyeur Wellness Center.

Now, this place… imagine if self-care went to college for architecture and cocaine.

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