The restaurant was called Élévation.

Élévation wasn't just a restaurant. It was a flex. Two Michelin stars, French precision colliding with California excess, the sort of place where the waiting list was measured in seasons and the wine list could bankrupt a small country. On a normal night, you'd have to sell a kidney and your firstborn to get a table.

Tonight? The entire room was dark except for one long imperial table glowing under soft amber light. No influencers, no hedge-fund bros, no Hollywood agents doing coke in the bathroom. Just us. The staff moved like well-trained shadows, appearing only when needed and vanishing the second they weren't.

Because Madison and I didn't just book the place.

We owned the damn deed.

She'd called me at nine that morning, practically vibrating through the phone.

"I told Mom and Dad the 'special celebration and two families dinner's' at Élévation," she'd said, her voice dripping with that particular brand of glee she got when she was about to drop a bomb. "They have no idea we bought it. I want to watch Daddy's eyebrows try to escape his forehead when I tell him his little princess now signs the paychecks of a two-star Michelin chef."

I'd laughed and told her to go for it. Some victories you don't steal; you let the woman you love detonate them herself.

So, I showed up last. On purpose.

Let them all settle, let the small talk flow, let the parents size each other up like rival mafia dons at a wedding. Then I walk in and flip the gravity of the room upside down.

The valet podium looked like a military checkpoint. Mom's silver Mercedes sat primly next to Madison's white BMW M8. And there, taking up two spaces because it could, was the midnight-blue Bentley Continental GT—Antonio Torres's midlife crisis on wheels.

I rolled up in the AMG One. Matte black, hybrid hypercar snarling with actual Formula 1 DNA. The exhaust note hit the block like a gunshot. Heads turned three streets away.

I stepped out and tossed the key fob to the valet. The kid caught it mid-air, eyes saucer-wide, like I'd just handed him a live grenade wrapped in hundred-dollar bills.

"Try not to stall her," I said with a grin. "She bites."

"Y-yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

I was wearing midnight-blue wool-silk blend that cost more than most people's rent—tailored so sharp it could cut glass.

White shirt open at the collar, no tie, because ties are for people who have something to prove. Hair styled but artfully messy, the way that takes forty minutes and three different products to look accidental. The Patek Philippe on my wrist—one of the Empress's many "just because" gifts—flashed rose gold in the low light.

Sixteen years old, a few billion in various accounts, and the confidence of someone who'd already won the game and was just deciding how loudly to celebrate.

I paused at the frosted glass doors.

Tonight, I let the Taboo Aura out to play.

Not full blast. Full blast would have everyone on the table before the first course. Just a low, velvet thrum—like a bass note you feel in your sternum more than hear. Enough to loosen collars and tongues. Enough to make forbidden thoughts feel… reasonable.

Men felt nothing. Women felt everything.

And in a room full of mothers, daughters, sisters, and future in-laws? The aura was about to turn a polite family merger into something deliciously dangerous.

I pushed through the doors.

The space hit like money smells: aged oak, white truffle, and the faint ozone of unlimited credit. Exposed brick, warm Edison glow, open kitchen flaming in the background, downtown LA glittering beyond the windows like the city itself was bowing.

One table. Eight place settings. Crystal catching light like diamonds having an orgy.

They were already seated.

Mom sat straight-backed in full nurse-posture armor, flanked by Emma and Sarah—who had clearly raided Madison's wardrobe and my worst nightmares. Emma's little black dress was doing things to my blood pressure no little sister should be allowed to do. Sarah, eighteen going on thirty-five, wore emerald silk like she was born to ruin men.

Madison held court at the head of the table in a burgundy dress that should come with a warning label. Dark hair spilling over one shoulder, eyes sparkling with impending chaos. She saw me and her smile went nuclear.

To her right: Antonio Torres. Mid-fifties, silver fox in full predator mode. Tan Brioni suit, shoulders that still looked like they could bench-press a boardroom table. Easy smile, dangerous eyes. The kind of man who'd built an empire before breakfast and played tennis after.

And then, beside him…

Sweet merciful fuck.

Sabrina Reynolds-Torres.

Madison was gorgeous. Sabrina was the reason the word existed.

But Sabrina?

Sabrina wasn't just beautiful. She was the final boss of beautiful.

Forty-three years old and somehow aging in reverse, like she'd stared down time itself and made it blink first. The dress she wore wasn't emerald; it was a weapon. Deep, wicked green that turned her skin into warm, gilded caramel under the low lights. Delicate floral embroidery crawled across the fabric like ivy claiming a temple, innocent until you realized the temple was built for sin.

The neckline plunged. Not dipped. Not hinted. Plunged. A sweetheart cut so deep it should've come with a search-and-rescue team.

Her breasts—full, high, impossibly perfect—rose and fell with every breath, straining against whisper-thin straps that looked one heartbeat away from surrendering. The fabric hugged her like it was terrified of leaving an inch uncovered, molding to the dramatic dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the kind of hourglass that made men forget their own names.

Then there was the slit.

Sweet Jesus, the slit.

It started somewhere indecent and climbed all the way to the top of her thigh, flashing smooth, toned leg with every subtle shift. A promise. A threat. A loaded question no one in the room had the balls to answer out loud.

Her hand cradled a wineglass; long fingers curled possessively around the stem—fingers that suddenly looked designed for things far more interesting than sipping Chardonnay.

Dark hair spilled in loose, glossy waves that caught the candlelight and threw it back like a dare. Subtle highlights of caramel and gold flickered every time she moved.

And those eyes—dark, endless brown—scanned the room with the calm, lethal confidence of a woman who'd been the most beautiful person in every room for two decades and had stopped being surprised by it sometime around 2008.

Then those eyes found me.

The Taboo Aura didn't knock.

It kicked the door off the hinges.

I watched it slam into her like a silent shockwave.

Her breath caught—barely, just enough for that dangerous neckline to threaten total structural collapse. Pupils dilated hard and fast, swallowing the brown until only a thin ring of color remained. A flush started low on her chest and raced upward, painting that perfect skin rose-gold. The fingers on her wineglass tightened until the stem should've snapped.

For one endless second, the poised, untouchable Sabrina Torres looked like a woman who'd just been handed the keys to every locked door she'd ever pretended not to notice.

And she hadn't decided yet whether to step through… or burn the whole house down.

She didn't blink.

Neither did I.

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