Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Emmeline was largely responsible for why Park’s private wing contained two enormous dressing rooms or at least why, despite their size, one of them seemed to have barely enough space.

The two dressing rooms had technically been designed for him.

That, at least, had been the architect’s innocent little fantasy.

Several years ago, Emmeline had decided that returning to her own bedroom every time she wanted to change clothes was a barbaric inconvenience, entirely unworthy of someone carrying the Bennett name:

So she had pestered Park to instruct the staff to convert the two section into a proper enormous walk-in wardrobe and his predecessor, who had apparently possessed no immunity whatsoever against persistent sisters, had agreed.

Now the innermost of it belonged to her with dresses, shoes, handbags, jewelry cases, scarves, cosmetics, and several mysterious objects Park suspected women had invented for the sole purpose of preventing men from ever fully understanding a closet.

She replaced most of it weekly.

With money in such obscene quantities there was little point wearing anything more than twice, so whatever was still good went to charity, and the female staff were free to take pieces home for daughters and sisters and nieces and whoever happened to fit.

She was kind like that.

But don’t let that fool you; kindness had never once stopped anybody from being dangerous.

She walked ahead of him wrapped in nothing but a white towel, the thin fabric stretched tight and high across her chest, barely containing the heavy soft weight of her breasts as they shifted and pressed against it with every step.

The knot at the front threatened to let the whole thing slip and spill her out.

The towel ended far too short at mid-thigh, leaving the full round of the lower curves of her ass almost visible every time she moved—the soft flesh bouncing lightly, the towel riding up just enough to flash the bare undersides of her cheeks.

Her wet hair hung loose and dark down her back, dripping steadily onto the marble in a slow continuous trail that ran between her shoulder blades and further down. Steam still rose off her bare shoulders and the exposed tops of her boobs where the towel had already slipped a fraction lower.

There was a deep flush along the backs of her arms and the backs of her thighs from the heat of the pool, her bare feet leaving small vanishing prints across the stone as she went—

Park followed at a respectful distance and looked determinedly at the ceiling, the racks, the light fittings, and one memorable brass drawer handle.

’This house has a dress code problem,’ he thought. ’Somebody should write to somebody.’

She disappeared into her half without a backward glance, and he turned to his own and sighed.

Despite growing up with enough money to buy a small island and rename it after a breakfast cereal, his predecessor had been painfully, aggressively modest. Ten sets of clothing occupied a tiny corner of an enormous rack.

It looked less like the wardrobe of a Prime Minister’s son and more like the belongings of a polite hostage who had been permitted to pack.

He had access to a card that could buy almost anything in the country.

He had simply never used it.

"Yeah," Park said to the racks. "That died with my predecessor."

"What did you say?" Emmeline called from somewhere behind a wall of hanging silk.

"Nothing. What are you doing today?"

"Having breakfast."

"That cannot possibly occupy an entire day." he replied.

"It depends how seriously I approach it." A drawer slid open. Another shut. "Oh—I have plans for you tonight."

"Plans."

"A surprise. I’ll show you later."

"Interesting. I’m looking forward to it."

Her head appeared between two racks, hair still dripping.

"You really are different today."

"How?"

"Normally when I say I have plans, you say no before I’ve finished the sentence."

"Changes, sis. Growth. Character development. Very expensive personal updates." He turned. "Forget that. I want to go shopping. Properly. Clothes, shoes and whatever else. I was wondering if you’d give me a hand."

Her whole face lit:

"Of course." Then, with impressive speed, her expression turned grave. "But that makes two favours."

Park almost laughed. He knew better. She was delighted, and she was going to charge him anyway.

"Keep count," he said. "Maybe one day I’ll pay you back."

"Oh, you will."

He picked something simple out of the tragic little republic of clothing left to him—dark trousers, a fitted shirt, white sneakers—dressed, straightened his sleeves, and headed for the door.

"I’ll be waiting in the sitting room."

"Try not to fall asleep again."

"No promises."

***

The quiet turned traitorous within about four minutes.

He sat on the long couch by the windows, and his mind went straight back to last night. Past the abilities, gifts and the System’s shameless generosity; underneath it, one piece of information sat lodged in him like a splinter under a nail:

His father had been blocking his career.

The revelation itself had not shocked him:

After all Alexander Bennett had spent nineteen years making sure his illegitimate son stayed a rumor buried somewhere inside the estate; he had a spotless reputation, a brilliant wife, three legitimate daughters, and a public image polished white enough to blind a voter from a kilometer off.

Park was the stain that would not wash out; so of course the man would rather bury him than let him walk onto television and become a face people recognized.

What puzzled Park was not why his father had interfered.

It was how he had slipped through despite his father’s measures to keep him hidden.

For years, everything had collapsed, audition, promising contact, door opening just far enough to show him the room before somebody quietly pulled it shut again; years of that.

Then an agency had called him and actually poached him off the back of an audition and invited him to try for their new-talent intake.

He had passed the acting round. His music assessment was scheduled for tomorrow.

And in the middle of all that, he had landed the Kim gig.

’Small but real and with the agency backing.’

That should have been flatly impossible with the Prime Minister’s thumb still pressing down on him. And there was no chance whatsoever that Alexander Bennett had simply grown bored and wandered off.

’Somebody has interfered.’

Somebody with the authority to untie a knot the Prime Minister had tied personally—and in this kingdom there were exactly two offices capable of that.

The Chancellor.

Or the Royal Family.

His stepmother seemed unlikely; if the Chancellor had secretly decided to sponsor his acting career, she had chosen a spectacularly elaborate way of expressing affection, and she was not a woman who did anything elaborately when a memo would serve.

And it sure wasn’t anyone from royal family, like hell!

Park leaned forward, elbows to his knees.

’Nobody powerful rescues anybody for free,’ he thought. ’Even kindness arrives holding paperwork at that altitude.’

So who was it overpowered his father?

"Little brother?"

He turned and every functioning process in his head stopped at once.

Emmeline stood in the doorway with one hand hooked through the strap of her purse, already smiling, because she had caught the exact second his brain went offline and she intended to enjoy every part of it:

A black fitted bodice buttoned down the front and cut close enough through the waist to be genuinely unfair, over a short flared skirt that gave the whole silhouette an expensive little swing. Across it, a black-and-white checkered shirt worn pulled off both shoulders, the sleeves slipping low down her arms artfully, leaving the pale line of her collarbones bare and framing a chest the bodice was working visibly hard to contain.

Her waist drawn in tight, her hips softened by the flare of the skirt, everything about her lush where it counted rather than thin or fragile—and that famously excessive figure of hers tipping the whole outfit several degrees past innocent and into something closer to a warning.

Her hair had been pinned up in a loose pretty ruin that only made her look more alive, and under the dark fall of her lashes her grey eyes were bright with amusement, already searching his face and finding precisely the reaction she had come for.

He kept staring.

Her smile deepened: "Well?"

He blinked. "What?"

"How do I look?"

Park stood up off the couch, still taking her in, and did not bother reaching for a single brotherly hedge.

"You’re the most beautiful girl in this entire estate."

He said without hesitation, with sincerity to brighten her eyes further.

She giggled and shifted the purse into her other hand; reached for him.

Park took her hand, threaded it properly through his arm with exaggerated gentlemanly care, and turned them both toward the doors.

"Damn right I am," Emmeline said. "Just don’t let Evangeline hear you say it."

"I don’t care if she hears."

She looked up at him.

"You’re more beautiful than she is," Park went on. "Nobody in this house can hold a candle to you."

A small delighted laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

"Hehehe. Keep talking like that and I may reduce your debt to one favour."

"May?"

"I’m generous. Not reckless."

She leaned into his arm as they stepped out into the corridor, still smiling despite herself.

She knew the truth, of course.

Evangeline was divinely beautiful. Whenever the Bennett daughter arrived anywhere, everyone else quietly became scenery, and no amount of clever tailoring had ever once changed that arithmetic.

They were walking downstairs now just for her to fade into her sister’s brilliance the moment they cleared the last step.

Emmeline lifted her chin anyway.

For the length of this corridor she had Park’s arm, Park’s attention, and the title of most beautiful woman in the estate.

Evangeline could wait until breakfast to take it back.

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