Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

All from one shopping trip. Because a handful of rich girls had aimed their phones at him, posted his face, tagged his brand-new accounts, and casually decided several million people should become curious about a stranger.

’Are these girls seriously this popular and powerful?’

Obviously they were. Jessie alone had close to 20million followers — twenty million people tracking what she wore, where she ate, who she stood next to, and which beautiful stranger she’d suddenly wrapped both arms around in a lift.

Back on Earth that was the population of a country but here it wasn’t a quarter of Aurora Imperial City, because Aurora wasn’t really a city so much as several enormous cities standing on each other’s shoulders under one name.

Twenty million was still twenty million.

Jessie had posted him and so did Emmeline’s friends on their Elite accounts while some had reposted them. Fashion pages might’ve had picked the pictures up, while entertainment pages had started asking who he was, and people had gone looking for his tiny role in The City— rewound it, zoomed in, and complained loudly that production had wasted a face like that on a dead lackey.

Others would follow him purely because rich girls followed him. Human beings loved pretending they’d found something early.

And his recognition had gone up more than ten times in a single day.

Something hot moved through his chest. Not fear. Not surprise, not anymore.

Hunger for more!

Park looked around for his phone.

"Where the hell did they put it?"

Quinn, probably. Or Emmeline — she was managing his socials now, which meant she might well be awake somewhere at this very moment going through his notifications like a small dictator inspecting a newly annexed territory.

Park smiled. He could wait.

The curiosity was chewing on him, which was exactly what made waiting worth it.

He’d stretch. Train. Shower. Eat and prepare for the audition. And then he’d look at what had happened overnight — by which point the numbers would be higher anyway.

Jessie might have replied, too. He’d sent her something before passing out in the car, though he could not for the life of him remember what. Hopefully charming. Hopefully not hey beauuuutiful jdjfjjf typed one-handed while his brain shut down.

A problem for later.

’I have plenty of those.’

He dismissed the panel and walked into the wardrobe.

Then stopped.

"Damn."

He’d seen the bags yesterday; but none of it had prepared him for the sight of it all arranged.

His side of the walk-in was enormous, and always had been — but yesterday most of it had been empty.

Now there was barely room left. Every rail full, sorted by type and colour and material and whatever other private system Quinn had applied while hiding from him. Shirts, hoodies, jackets, knitwear, trousers, gym kit, streetwear, and a whole section engineered to look cheap while costing enough to make an honest man throw a brick.

The shoe walls were full:

Sneakers, boots, loafers, dress shoes he still believed came with a divorce attached, training shoes, limited pairs, plain pairs — shoes for walking, running, events, interviews, rich-people nonsense, and future situations in which Emmeline apparently expected him to have more feet than the standard allocation.

Park moved deeper in, fingers trailing along the rails.

Every fabric felt different under his hand.

Soft cotton, cashmere, smooth technical material, expensive wool, and leather so fine it felt less like a dead animal and more like somebody had bullied a cloud into becoming a jacket.

Then he reached the watches.

Glass drawers ran the length of the display counter — chains, bracelets, rings, cufflinks, all the small pieces. Nearly twenty watches sat under the lighting, smartwatches for training, quiet everyday pieces, dearker ones for events and formal ones that looked perfectly simple right up until somebody whispered the price and ruined the atmosphere.

Park opened a drawer, and the lights inside came on by themselves.

He ran a finger along the edge of one watch and looked around.

"What a fucking life."

Yesterday he’d been too busy living it to actually understand it. Laughing with Emmeline, flirting with Jessie, provoking Quinn intimately, buying things, photographed and walking around inside the Imperial Park Royale like economic law had been temporarily suspended in his honour.

Now, standing alone in a wardrobe at six in the morning, sore as hell and half awake, it landed.

This was real.

The second chance wasn’t some elaborate fantasy his brain had generated on a snowy road to make dying feel less pathetic.

He’d made it out.

’Somehow, impossibly, I’d made it out.’

Park looked at himself in the tall mirror. Hair wrecked from sleep, shirt creased, body aching, and probably carrying the combined smell of yesterday’s session and expensive massage oil.

The man looking back did not look like somebody waiting for his life to begin.

’It has already started, Park, this is us now and we have everything we never had; things we could cherish, people who loves use, Park we do have a family!’

And Park intended to take the whole damn thing with both hands.

The money, obviously — he had no intention of becoming one of those rich idiots who insisted wealth didn’t matter after a childhood of heated floors. Money mattered and bought time and privacy and comfort and security and good food and better chances, and the beautiful ability to tell terrible people to go fuck themselves without checking the rent first.

He was going to enjoy every Cel.

Respectfully. Shamelessly.

But wealth was only the floor.

He wanted a career so enormous his old self would have laughed, then cried, then accused him of lying about it. Films. Series. Music. Stages packed with people screaming a name he’d chosen himself.

Awards sitting somewhere he’d eventually forget to dust, songs playing out of cars and bedrooms and bars and wedding halls and the cheap earphones of some broke kid walking home from another failed audition.

He wanted to become the person he’d needed to see back when he was dying as nobody.

A star bright enough that the industry could never quietly bury him again.

He wanted power, too. Not political power — his family had enough of that to poison a nation. His own. The kind built out of talent and fame and money and influence and millions of people waiting to hear what he’d do next. Enough that no director could end him out of envy, no father could close doors behind his back, and no agency could treat him like replaceable meat the second the contract was signed.

He’d own his work. Own his name.

And then there was the private life, which was where the dream turned genuinely dangerous.

Park wanted his family. Not this cold half-broken version where four people lived in one mansion and behaved as though affection required a permit. He wanted Emmeline laughing beside him without carrying the whole weight of it alone. Aveline dropping the ice long enough to admit she cared.

Evangeline looking at him like a brother instead of a walking reminder of their father’s worst decision.

He wanted dinners, arguments, birthdays, his sisters stealing his clothes and insulting his taste in women:

A house that felt lived in rather than professionally maintained.

And yes — he wanted the women too.

Not one polite romance tied up in a bow for the public.

’Fuck that.’

He’d been handed this face, a second life, and a city stuffed with actresses, heiresses, celebrities, powerful women, dangerous women, proud women, and women who’d bite through their own tongues before admitting they wanted him.

He wanted that entire beautiful disaster.

Not a collection of pretty dolls orbiting him with the lights off behind their eyes. Women with names and pride and careers and tempers and secrets, enough fire in them to make loving them a dangerous full-time occupation. Women who could stand next to him, challenge him, tease him, fight with him, want him, and still have whole lives that didn’t begin and end at his feet.

"Scandalous? Absolutely. Complicated? Hell yes, baby, HELL FUCKING YES!"

’Worth it?’

Park looked at his reflection and smiled:

’Without question.’

The world could have Nathaniel Park — the actor, the singer, the heartthrob, the beautiful bastard on screens and stages and posters and every poor girl’s wallpaper. They could argue about him, want him, hate him, worship him, cancel him, defend him, and build entire accounts around the angle of his jaw.

But Park Bennett — his family, his home, his real life — belonged to him. Kept behind gates and private lifts and dark car windows and enough security to make curiosity break its own neck trying to get in.

He was going to build something so rich and so full and so wildly alive that his first life would look like a badly cut trailer for the real film.

Park closed the watch drawer slowly.

His body still hurt. His audition was waiting. His father and stepmother were somewhere inside this house, probably, phone was missing and his recognition had gone up tenfold overnight.

And his second life hadn’t even stretched its legs yet.

He held his own eyes in the mirror, cognac-gold under a mess of black hair.

"What a life," he whispered.

Not the one he had:

"The one I am about to build for myself!"

A career the whole world would envy. Sisters he’d drag back together with love, stubbornness and emotional harassment if that was what it took, a private fortune hidden inside a public one.

Everything he’d wanted. Everything he’d been denied.

He was going to have all of it this time.

And he wasn’t letting anybody take a single piece of it away.

"Not even Alexander freakin’ Bennett!"

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