Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Park watched the numbers above the lift doors climb.

Each floor flashed into existence and vanished before his eyes properly caught it, replaced by the next number as the lift fired them upward through the tower. There was no pull in his stomach to suggest they were moving at a speed that should have turned everyone inside into a fine red paste against the ceiling.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked. "Because we passed shopping about thirty floors ago, and I’m starting to think this lift is taking us to Heaven’s customer service desk."

Emmeline had draped herself against the curved glass wall behind her, one shoulder resting against it, entirely untroubled by the fact that the city was shrinking beneath her feet. At this height, whole buildings had begun to look like decorative pieces arranged around the tower’s base. Cars crawled through the streets like bright beetles.

Elevated trains became thin silver lines slipping between blocks of glass and steel.

Most people would have been clutching something solid and quietly remembering relatives they had not spoken to in years.

Emmeline looked bored.

"The private shopping floors."

Park waited.

But she smiled at him so he waited a little longer, in case the rest of the explanation was taking a slower lift.

It never arrived.

"That explains absolutely nothing."

She giggled. "Access is restricted from the eighty-ninth floor upward. That’s where Empire Mall keeps its most exclusive stores and services."

Park looked back at the gold display.

They had already passed ninety-one and were still climbing with the smooth confidence.

"Restricted to whom?"

"Royals, nobles, members of the Benders Families Society, To put it short; Crown District residents with the correct access level, and powerful foreign families visiting from other empires or kingdoms." She gave a small wave, as if sweeping aside a list of close family friends.

"You know. The usual people."

"The usual people," Park repeated.

Rich people had a beautiful talent for describing the most powerful fraction of human civilisation as if they were discussing a few neighbours who came round occasionally to borrow sugar and interfere with elections.

As far as Park understood it, the Benders Families were the Celestial Empire’s answer to the great industrial dynasties.

They had no noble titles, ancestral castles granted by the Crown or portraits of dead grandfathers in military dress staring down from palace corridors, silently disappointed that their descendants had developed feelings.

What they had was money.

But not ordinary money; the pleasant sort that bought a large house, a fast car, and the freedom to become unbearable at restaurants.

This was old, vast, generational money passed through so many hands and corporations that it eventually stopped looking like personal wealth and started behaving like part of the nation’s plumbing.

The Benders Families owned banks and shipping lines, pharmaceutical groups, weapons manufacturers, technology firms, media networks, luxury houses, food corporations, construction conglomerates, and enough foreign holdings out of Celestial Empire to make several smaller kingdoms check their tone before criticising them.

They were woven into Aurora’s economy so deeply that if the royal family ever though of removing one of the larger families would probably cause half the empire to lose power and the other half to receive a very apologetic letter from its bank.

A few of them carried enough weight in politics and the constitutional parliament that elected officials occasionally went to bed with one set of principles and woke the next morning burning with an entirely new moral conviction that happened to match whatever legislation a family needed passed that month.

Essentially, they were this world’s Elon Musks, Waltons, and Arnaults and other huge names back on earth, except with different names, heavier security, and probably twice as many inconvenient children hidden inside expensive schools overseas.

"So," Park said, fitting the pieces together, "they aren’t nobles."

"No."

"But everyone treats them like nobles."

"Sometimes better."

"Because they’re rich."

"Because they own basically things the nobles need and they’re become so big that they can manipulate politics outside the royal family, heck, some can even do that."

Park nodded slowly. "Right. The oldest political system there is. Titles remain sacred until the man without one owns your bank."

"Exactly."

The lift continued upward in near silence.

It moved fast enough to swallow several floors every few seconds, yet there was barely a tremor under Park’s feet.

Through the curved glass, Park caught fragments of the floors passing outside the shaft.

A private lounge glowed under low amber lights, all cream leather and dark wood, with clusters of well-dressed people arranged around small tables. It was gone before he could make out their faces.

Then came a restaurant suspended above an indoor garden. Pale trees rose through openings in the floor, their branches lit from beneath while narrow streams of water wound through black stone.

Another floor held a gallery wrapped in charcoal marble. White sculptures stood alone beneath soft spotlights, each surrounded by enough empty space to house an ordinary family.

Quiet corridors followed, lined with boutiques whose windows contained one item.

Occasionally two.

Never three, apparently, placing three handbags beside one another looked financially desperate.

"Sp why the private access?" He asked again.

Emmeline followed his gaze. "The towers aren’t just shopping centres. For people like us, they’re a safe haven."

"From what?"

"The common world."

Park turned his head toward her. Slowly.

She had said it without the slightest trace of malice. There was no theatrical disgust in her voice, no curl of the lip, or even the brief pause a normal person might take before casually excluding almost the entire human population from the world that mattered.

Emmeline caught his expression and laughed. "I don’t mean safe as in nobody can hurt us. That’s what security is for."

"Comforting distinction."

"I mean safe from attention. Cameras. Reporters. Strangers filming everything. Staff selling private conversations. People tracking who enters a building and when they leave; who they leave with."

She pushed away from the glass and turned slightly, the city spread out behind her like a model built for her personal amusement.

"Up here, someone can drink too much, lose an obscene amount of money, meet whoever they aren’t supposed to be meeting, start a stupid argument, cheat on their partner, or make a catastrophic business decision. They can wake up regretting their entire bloodline without discovering they’re trending before breakfast."

Park stared at her.

"So the towers are basically an elite witness protection programme."

"More of an agreement."

"What agreement?"

Her smile became smaller and more knowing:

"What happens above the restricted floors stays above the restricted floors."

"Rich people Las Vegas."

"What is that?"

"Nothing."

He turned back toward the glass, watching the city sink farther beneath them, because the whole thing made a deeply diseased kind of sense.

People who lived under constant public observation would naturally want somewhere they could misbehave in peace. Ordinary wealthy people might have settled for a private club, a gated resort, or some distant island staffed by employees whose nondisclosure agreements contained clauses about accidental death.

This lot had built three skyscrapers tall enough to bully the clouds.

Why hide your sins in a basement when you could raise them ninety floors above the law and keep on going?

Emmeline pointed through the glass toward the broad curve of the tower around them. Its silver exterior caught the afternoon sun and threw it across the neighbouring buildings in long, blinding sheets.

"This is the Left Tower. It’s mostly business and commerce. The lower floors have ordinary shops, restaurants, cinemas, showrooms, and entertainment and nay sort of business really."

"Ordinary," Park repeated, thinking of the jewellery store downstairs where one bracelet had cost more than his previous life’s childhood home.

"Higher up from 89 floor, you get the private boutiques, luxury dealerships, jewellery galleries, auction houses, art brokers, cosmetic clinics, private banks, law firms, investment offices, and member lounges."

Park turned away from the view.

"Hold on."

Emmeline raised an eyebrow.

"Luxury dealerships."

"Yes."

"Inside the building this high?"

"Cars, yachts, aircraft, private islands."

His head came around with the careful disbelief of a man who suspected a sudden movement might damage reality.

"You can buy an island between lunch and a facial?"

"If your credit clears."

"Damn." He considered it for a moment. "That’s efficient."

"There are design studios too. Tailors, modelling agencies, entertainment companies, recording spaces, and private offices for rent. Some families keep their entire corporate headquarters in these towers because the security and privacy is better than most of their own buildings."

"That doesn’t sound difficult."

"It should."

"It should," Park agreed. "But it doesn’t."

The display climbed past eighty-five.

Outside, the city had become a field of glass needles pushing through haze. Clouds drifted close enough to touch the upper edges of neighbouring towers, wrapping them in pale strips of mist.

Somewhere below, millions of people were working, eating, arguing, falling in love, losing jobs, and committing minor crimes under increasingly creative circumstances but up here, the rich bought islands after lunch and called it privacy.

Park slipped his hands into his pockets and watched another private floor streak past.

For the first time since entering the tower, he began to understand what Empire Mall truly sold above the eighty-ninth floor.

It was not clothing, jewellery, art, aircraft, or land; they sold a world in which consequences needed the correct access card to reach you.

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