Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Luckily, going down from the restricted floors didn’t need Royale Black access.

Otherwise Park, Quinn, and the two leftover female staff members would’ve been stranded ninety-eight floors above the city while Emmeline vanished with the only card that could open the private elevators.

Which, honestly, would’ve been a perfect ending to his first rich-person shopping trip. Imagine it: the secret son of the Prime Minister, marooned in a luxury tower because he kissed the wrong woman’s hand. Poetic and idiotic. Expensive.

Thankfully, the elevator accepted downward travel without asking who their ancestors were, how many companies their family owned, or whether they’d personally contributed to the decline of the middle class. Park stepped inside with Quinn and the two staff members as the doors began their slow, polished slide shut.

Somewhere far below them, the elevator carrying Emmeline and her security lead was already dropping, a sealed capsule of fury heading straight for ground level.

Nobody looked at anyone; the two staff members had pressed themselves into the back corners of the elevator so thoroughly they might as well have been part of the walnut panelling.

Park stood near the glass wall and watched the floor numbers descend — 97, 96, 95 — the numbers ticking down with a leisure that felt almost insulting.

The view was stunning; but it did absolutely nothing to settle his thoughts.

Emmeline was furious with him.

Emmeline; the one person Park had genuinely believed would let him get away with almost anythin, the girl who’d defended him when nobody else would and kept carving out space for him even when the old Park had shoved her away and accused her loyalty of being some kind of surveillance operation dressed up as sisterly concern.

As far as Park knew, he could rob a bank, show up at home covered in glitter and someone else’s blood, and tell Emmeline it had been an artistic misunderstanding.

She’d insult him for twenty minutes, hide the cash somewhere sensible, then ask if he’d eaten.

That was the slot he thought he held in her life. Untouchable. Annoying, but beloved; the one person whose anger had a ceiling.

And all he’d done — all he’d done — was catch a beautiful stranger before she face-planted into the floor, check her injured ankle, help her sit down, flirt a little, and kiss her hand.

Fine:

Maybe flirt a little was doing some suspiciously heavy lifting in that sentence, but still..

Jessie had practically gift-wrapped herself around him for half the afternoon while Emmeline stood behind the phone telling them to scooch closer. Jessie had touched his waist. His arm. His neck — fingers light and deliberate.

Park had held her, teased her, swapped numbers with her, and openly announced that men like him were incapable of staying simple acquaintances with women like her.

Emmeline had just laughed.

Kalypso got one kiss on the hand. One. And suddenly Park had committed emotional treason.

That made no sense, unless the problem wasn’t the flirting but Kalypso herself.

Park glanced toward Quinn.

She stood beside the elevator doors with her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture straight as a blade, expression locked down so tight you’d need a crowbar to get anything out of it.

"You know her," Park said.

Quinn didn’t turn. "Yes."

Park waited but that was apparently the entire answer she planned to donate to the conversation.

"And?"

"And what, Young Master?"

He looked at her. "Who is Kalypso?"

Quinn finally met his gaze — slow like she was deciding how much she could hand over without breaking something. There was no confusion in her face furrowed brow with a what do you meantilt of the head.

Which confirmed the ugly suspicion that had already started chewing a hole in his stomach.

She expected him to know.

"I don’t believe that is my place to explain."

"That is an incredibly annoying answer."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Park stared at the side of her face — the clean line of her jaw, the way her lashes didn’t even flicker. "You’re angry too."

"I’m performing my duties."

"Coldly."

"My duties do not require warmth."

"Damn."

Behind them, one of the staff members studied the elevator floor with a level of concentration usually reserved for diffusing bombs; the geometric pattern in the marble had presumably never been this fascinating to anyone in human history.

Park lowered his voice. "Did I do something wrong?"

Quinn’s jaw tightened; just a flicker — the muscle at the hinge — but he caught it.

"You kissed her hand."

"I kissed Jessie’s cheek in one of the pictures. You saw it."

"That is different."

"How?"

Quinn said nothing. The silence stretched, elastic and unbearable.

Park exhaled and leaned back against the glass.

Great.

Being a heroic knight in shining silver armor had apparently torched his sister’s mood and vaporized every single romantic point he’d banked with Quinn over the course of the day. Poof. Gone.

Maybe the silver armor had been the problem; maybe if he’d saved Kalypso while wearing gold armor instead, Emmeline and Quinn would’ve skipped the anger and gone straight to killing each other. Or him. Probably him.

Women did seem to appreciate efficiency when they were furious — why waste time on two targets when one would do?

Park ran the scene again in his head but slower this time.

Kalypso falling — the sharp intake of breath from nearby tables, the clatter of her heel skittering across the floor. His catch — arms out, body moving before his brain filed the paperwork.

Her ankle, already swelling, the skin going tight and warm under his fingers.

The conversation — her voice low and amused, the way she’d looked at him like he was a puzzle she’d already solved. Emmeline’s arrival — the shift in air pressure, the sudden drop in temperature, the way the room seemed to hold its breath.

Kalypso had not looked surprised.

Kalypso had only smiled.

She’d waved.

Hi, Emmie.

Like she’d known exactly who was coming back through those doors like the confrontation was a scene she’d already rehearsed, and she was pleased with how the blocking was landing.

Then there was the way she’d grabbed his hand when he stood to follow Emmeline; she’d wanted to see whether he’d stay with her or chase after Emmie.

A test. A data point.

Had the fall been real?

The ankle certainly looked injured; he’d felt the swelling starting under his fingers — the heat, the give of the tissue, the way she’d winced when he touched the joint.

That wasn’t fake. You couldn’t fake the way skin puffed and pinked in real time.

But a woman didn’t need to plan every single detail for an encounter to be intentional. Maybe she’d recognised him first — clocked him across the lounge, filed the face, done some quick mental arithmetic. Maybe she’d placed herself close enough to manufacture an opportunity, and then luck, or stupid footwear, or plain physics had done the rest.

Gods.

A man should fear women sometimes:

Not because they were mystical creatures or whatever poetic drivel heartbroken men scribbled after a bad breakup — something about moonlight and unknowable depths and eyes like oceans. No. Women were terrifying for a much simpler, much cleaner reason.

They could smile while holding an entire plan behind their teeth.

And you’d never know until it was already too late.

Park looked at Quinn again.

Still silent.

Fine.

The afternoon light had started its shift, going warm and syrupy, pouring gold across windows and dragging long shadows between buildings:

One enormous screen several towers away showed Princess Seraphina’s face.

The scandal hadn’t died, if anything, it had sprouted another head and grown teeth.

A breaking-news banner crawled beneath footage of the princess leaving some private venue — head down, coat collar up, the universal posture of someone whose PR team had run out of ideas. R

eporters shouted questions from behind security barriers, their mouths moving in a frenzy the elevator glass didn’t transmit. Another screen popped up next to it: blurred documents, a timeline with too many arrows, and a panel of experts wearing the thrilled expressions of people who got paid to discuss someone else’s disaster.

The ambitious princess was still busy setting the empire on fire from inside her own scandal, apparently.

’Good for her. Consistency matters.’

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