A/N: Guys, we will go slow here, take your time. This is Female Lead's (FL) Arc

The day had been a slow burn of digital demands, a tempest in a teacup that he'd navigated with divine ease.

Hours spent with ARIA, decoding financial projections that would make the Treasury Department weep, coordinating with Charlotte as she morphed from a trust-fund princess into a ruthless corporate queen, and reviewing the terrifyingly elegant tech Tommy was constructing.

Through it all, Patricia had watched from the sectional, curled up with coffee, wearing nothing but one of his black henleys that hung on her like a silk secret.

She didn't demand; she simply existed, and her quiet, smiling presence was the grounding force in his day.

Then Isabella had called, her voice a breathless, desperate whisper. Her daughter was safe for two hours. She was at the Crown Jewel right next door.

Eros had gone, being the god of pleasure, taking her in ways that had broken furniture and left her sobbing his name into the pillows. When he'd returned, Patricia hadn't asked. She'd just risen, kissed him, a kiss filled with the taste of another woman's satisfaction and a gratitude so profound it felt like worship.

The afternoon dissolved into a cascade of video calls. The "My Harem" chat on his quantum watch lit up like a Christmas tree. Madison, the supreme commander, orchestrating the integration of two cities of women, checking in, making sure everyone felt valued.

He spoke to each of them, their faces appearing in neat little boxes, his voice a balm that soothed and aroused in equal measure. He made them feel seen, made them know they were more than just beautiful bodies—they were part of a kingdom, and their loyalty was its foundation.

Through it all, Patricia was a constant. Sometimes listening, sometimes just existing, her body a warm, familiar anchor in the sea of shifting loyalties. She was never jealous, never demanding.

She simply was.

Madison had called separately, her voice a thrilling mix of excitement and nervous energy. The BioLa deal was solidifying—twenty billion in contracts—and her father was personally crediting both her and Peter Carter for the miracle. A meeting was requested. A small, intimate dinner with the Torres and Carter families. Peter's presence was non-negotiable.

He'd had agreed, a predator's thrill humming in his veins at the thought of meeting Sabrina's husband and his woman's father? The illicit thoughts he had were running wild.

But that was tomorrow's problem.

Evening descended, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and bruised purples. The penthouse filled with a golden light that made the city below look like a realm of fire.

Patricia stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, a silhouette against the setting sun. She wore his shirt, his leather jacket draped nearby, her body a sacred landscape he wanted to map again with his mouth and hands.

He came up behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. He nuzzled the soft skin of her neck, breathing in her scent. "What are you thinking?"

"That I don't want this to end," she whispered, her voice a husky confession. "That tomorrow I have to become Mrs. Morrison again. That this weekend feels like a dream I'm going to wake up from, and the reality is going to feel like a cage."

"Then let's not allow the cage," he murmured, his lips a soft brand against her skin. "Let's make the most of tonight. Let's go walk. Be together under the stars instead of under the cold, dead eyes of society."

She turned in his embrace, tilting her head up to meet his. Her eyes were clear, no longer holding tears, just a deep, profound happiness he felt resonate deep in his bones. "I'd love that."

Now they were walking through the beating heart of LA at night.

The city was a different creature after dark, a neon jungle where dreams were made and broken.

The air hummed with music and distant sirens, with the excited chatter of people chasing a Saturday night buzz. And as they moved, a strange phenomenon began. The city itself seemed to lean in, to pay them homage. People on the street, their faces illuminated by passing headlights, would slow down, then stop.

Conversations would falter mid-sentence. Heads would turn. It was as if they were walking with their own private spotlight, a gravitational pull that was both subtle and absolute.

A gaggle of women in cocktail dresses, standing outside a velvet-roped club, went utterly silent. One raised a perfectly manicured hand, pointing. They stared, their expressions a mix of awe, envy, and pure, unadulterated longing. One of them, a stunning redhead, actually fanned herself.

A valet at a high-end restaurant stiffened as they approached. The man waiting with his date looked at Patricia, then at Eros, then back at his own date, and a look of such profound disappointment crossed his face it was almost comical.

The woman, however, just stared, her lips parted, her date forgotten.

A group of guys leaning against the wall of a dive bar went quiet. Their jeering laughter died in their throats. They just watched, an unspoken understanding passing between them, a silent acknowledgment of overwhelming power.

"Damn, bro," one of them finally breathed. "Goals."

Patricia pressed closer to him, her grip on his arm tightening. There was no longer any fear, no shred of the insecure woman who had walked into the penthouse.

This was a claim.

She held his arm like a queen holding her scepter, her body language a clear, public declaration: This is mine.

Each stare was different. More intense. More… possessive. It wasn't just the idle curiosity of the morning anymore; it was a city full of moths drawn to a flame.

Patricia felt it as a physical pressure, a collective gaze that heated her skin beneath her layers. She squeezed Eros's arm, a small, secret smile touching her lips. "They're staring even more than this morning."

"The night strips away the daylight's illusions," Eros said, his voice a low, resonant hum against her ear. "In the dark, people stop pretending they're not looking for beautiful things. They seek them out, hunting for them with their eyes. And you… you're the most beautiful thing out here."

"We're beautiful," she corrected softly, her voice a warm, gentle corrective that held the weight of a universal truth. Not just an observation, but a reclamation. She wasn't just the object of their desire; together, they were the source, the cause.

As they walked past a high-end restaurant, they became the center of a living film. Floor-to-ceiling windows acted as a silver screen displaying a scene of their perfect, private moment to the wealthy diners inside.

Nearly every head turned, forks pausing mid-air. One man, a man in a tailored suit who likely dictated corporate fates, actually stood from his table, craning his neck for a better look, a breach of the fourth wall that was both surreal and utterly ridiculous.

His date's face was a cold flash of territorial instinct, a flash of pure, bitter jealousy that was instantly recognizable.

"I feel like we're in a movie," Patricia laughed softly, the sound light and full of wonder. "Like everyone's watching us."

"We are," Eros said. "Let them. Let the whole city see how happy you are. Let them see the woman who chose her own light."

They turned down a quieter street, leaving the screaming neon and hungry crowds behind. The city's noise faded like a tide receding, replaced by the hushed intimacy of trees overhead that formed a cathedral of leaves, filtering the harsh orange glow into something softer, more sacred.

Patricia shivered, a fine tremor running through her body.

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