Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

The ninety-first and ninety-second floors were mostly shoes, which Park discovered was a polite way of saying Emmeline intended to buy enough footwear to equip him for ten separate lives, three careers, one mild identity crisis, and at least one future escape from paparazzi.

The first boutique alone had walls of sneakers displayed behind clear glass, every pair floating under its own light as though they were relics rather than objects designed to make contact with dirty pavement.

Another section held boots, loafers, dress shoes, running shoes, slip-ons, trainers, limited releases, custom leather, and several pairs that Lane’s counterpart described as quiet luxury—

He had no intention of walking outside the Crown District looking like somebody had emptied a luxury catalogue over him and forgotten to remove the tags. There was rich, and then there was dressing like a moving robbery target.

Most of what Emmeline chose stayed subtle—clean sneakers with no enormous logos, dark loafers, simple leather boots, soft-toned trainers, pieces whose price stayed invisible unless a person knew precisely which stitching or sole or small metal detail to examine.

The people who knew would know, obviously. Everyone else would see Park, remember the whole poor-handsome-talented-actor situation, and assume half of it was fake knock-off, which suited him beautifully.

The less anybody wondered why a struggling young actor was walking around with several hundred thousand Cels casually attached to his body, the better.

Emmeline understood the problem immediately. "This one," she said, holding up a white sneaker with a dark sole. "It looks normal."

Park checked the discreet price display. "It costs thirty-eight thousand Cels."

"I said it looks normal. I didn’t say it was."

"Right. My mistake."

She handed it to the attendant. "Three colours."

Park stared at her. "Why?"

"So you can coordinate."

"I own feet, Emmie. Not a fashion military."

"You own a face people are going to photograph."

"That does not explain why my feet need a winter version, a summer version, and an emotionally unavailable version of the same shoe."

Jessie, Emmie’s friend who had stayed with them after the first boutique and appeared increasingly unwilling to leave for any reason whatsoever, covered a laugh behind her phone.

Emmeline ignored him entirely. "Try these too," she said, and handed him loafers.

Park looked down at them with open suspicion. "I’m nineteen, Em."

"And?"

"These look like they come with a divorce and partial custody."

"They’re loafers."

"They’re middle-aged surrender."

Jessie laughed outright this time, and even Quinn’s mouth twitched before she got it under control.

Emmeline folded her arms. "Try them."

He tried them. They looked unfairly good. He stared at his reflection for several seconds, then quietly instructed the attendant to include two pairs.

Emmeline smiled, smug, watching corruption take root in real time. "You’re enjoying yourself."

"I’m studying."

"You’ve been staring at those shoes for five minutes."

"They have narrative depth."

"They’re brown."

"Exactly. Complex."

The tragedy was that he genuinely was beginning to enjoy himself. At first he had approached every price tag like it contained a live threat, and then something inside him quietly loosened. Maybe it was the unlimited card, maybe it was that nobody around him so much as blinked when an attendant mentioned a six-figure total.

Most likely it was the old broke actor habits buried somewhere in his chest getting drunk on the simple experience of choosing what he liked instead of calculating how many meals it would cost him.

Whatever it was, by the third shoe boutique Park had stopped waiting for Emmeline to choose anything, and started pointing.

’That,’ he decided, ’is living.’

Young, rich, handsome, alive for the second time, surrounded by expensive things and beautiful hot women and an annoyingly tolerable sister who insisted on photographing every outfit as though documenting the recovery of an endangered species.

She made him stand beside displays, near the glass wall, outside boutiques, and beneath one ridiculous art installation constructed entirely out of suspended silver shoes.

"Another picture?" Park asked.

"You’ll thank me later."

"I already have a face, I remember what I look like."

"Your social media doesn’t."

"My social media has seven people."

"Exactly. Poverty."

Jessie stepped closer and angled her phone. "C-can you look at me."

Park turned toward the camera and smiled at her.

Jessie lowered the phone slowly.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You forgot to take it."

"I know."

Emmeline sighed. "He does that. Try again."

The second attempt produced an actual photograph, though only barely, and Jessie’s ears had gone a colour that had nothing to do with the lighting.

The girls bought nearly as many shoes as Park did. Emmeline moved through the displays with terrifying efficiency, selecting heels and boots and sneakers and sandals and two pairs she admitted she did not need but insisted had spoken to her.

Park picked one up. "What did it say?"

"Buy me."

"That’s not the shoe talking. That’s mental illness with a platinum card."

She snatched it back. "You bought five black sneakers."

"They have different personalities."

Jessie nodded solemnly. "He has a point."

"Thank you."

"No, he doesn’t," Emmeline said.

Quinn suffered too. The moment she showed the faintest interest in a pair of clean black boots, Emmeline spotted it and added them to the list before Quinn could assemble an objection, and from there the assault continued—casual sneakers, simple flats, another pair of boots, and soft shoes intended for days when she needed to blend in beside Park without looking like she could break a man’s wrist using a hotel keycard.

After shoes came bags, wallets, belts, sunglasses, caps, masks, and enough accessories to support several future identities.

Emmeline bought purses for herself and Jessie while Park acquired two clean backpacks for scripts and training gear, a slim leather work bag, several wallets, simple belts, travel bags, and a compact crossbody bag he initially rejected on the grounds that it made him look too organized.

They also chose sunglasses designed to obscure part of his face without making him look like an actor desperately trying to be recognized while pretending not to be, then caps, then simple masks for whenever his career reached the point where walking through an ordinary shopping district stopped being possible.

Then came dress shoes, most of which Park had no idea where he would ever wear. Some looked appropriate for weddings, funerals, state dinners, or standing beside a fireplace informing one’s children that the family company had gone to their more responsible cousin.

Park looked from her to Emmeline and back again.

’Suspicious little rich girls.’

Before he could open a proper investigation an attendant returned with another pair, and his attention was dragged off toward the deeply important question of whether dark brown leather made him look refined or merely like a man who had begun paying tax voluntarily.

By the time they left the ninety-second floor even Park had lost count of the pairs. Staff had stopped carrying boxes individually and begun organising everything into digital delivery manifests routed directly to the Bennett estate; apparently rich people did not leave shops carrying bags unless the bags were part of the outfit.

The purchases simply vanished behind polite smiles and would reappear at home before dinner, which struck Park as convenient, terrifying, and beautiful in roughly equal measure.

The ninety-third and ninety-fourth floors changed the mood entirely.

Park had expected more shopping. Instead Emmeline walked him into a world of private tailoring houses, formalwear studios, fabric galleries, and appointment-only salons where people discussed clothing with the gravity of surgeons planning a difficult operation.

The first tailoring house occupied two full levels and had no visible brand name anywhere, only a dark crest carved into stone and a receptionist who already knew Emmeline’s appointment before she gave her name. Inside, walls of fabric ran away under warm lighting—wool, silk, cashmere, velvet, linen, and materials Park could not identify, arranged by season and weight and origin and quite possibly emotional stability.

Private fitting rooms opened onto raised platforms surrounded by mirrors while tailors moved between them in fitted black with measuring tapes draped around their necks like sacred objects.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!