Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Of all the ridiculous things Alexander Bennett had poured money into across the estate, the gym might have been the one place where he had completely lost his goddamn mind.

The Bennett mansion already had enough rooms to make navigation feel like an elective course... yet Alexander had looked at all that space, decided ordinary rich-man luxury was not scratching the itch, then claimed an enormous section of the basement and turned practically an entire underground wing into his private kingdom of iron, sweat, and deeply personal hatred toward body fat.

Whenever he was home and the Empire did not need its Prime Minister putting out some national fire, Alexander spent at least three hours down there. Sometimes he trained, moved equipment around because apparently the position of a bench could disturb a man’s soul.

Other times, new machines appeared because running a country, maintaining a marriage held together by political-grade steel, and raising four children with enough emotional issues to start their own government still left him lying awake at night thinking, ’You know what this gym needs? Another cable station."

Park had seen the place through inherited memories, but memories flattened things.

The main floor opened across pale wood, dark steel, wide mirrors, and clean white lighting.

Cardio machines occupied one side in long, neat rows: treadmills, curved runners, rowing machines, stair climbers, assault bikes, elliptical trainers, and several expensive-looking machines Park suspected had been invented by someone whose spouse left them for being too cheerful.

The strength section spread farther back with squat racks, adjustable benches, cable towers, plate-loaded presses, leg machines, pull-up stations, dumbbell walls, kettlebell racks, and enough black iron to make the whole place feel like a luxury showroom where the products were various ways to make your body beg for mercy.

A long blue strip of training turf ran through the middle, wide enough for sprints, lunges, sled pushes, carries, agility drills, and whatever other ugly idea somebody with a whistle might develop before breakfast. Weighted sleds waited near one end beside battle ropes thick enough to restrain a small monster. Medicine balls and sandbags filled neat shelves. Resistance bands hung by length and tension.

Every kettlebell faced the same direction, because even chunks of iron apparently knew better than to look disorderly inside Alexander Bennett’s gym.

Large screens were set into several mirrored walls, each connected to cameras and motion sensors capable of tracking form, building routines, correcting posture, and displaying enough information to stop even the most committed gym liar from claiming his half-repetition counted.

Behind a glass divider sat the recovery section with massage tables, stretching equipment, cold-compression machines, cabinets of towels and medical supplies, and several pieces of recovery technology Park had no clue how to use but fully intended to touch once curiosity defeated common sense.

It was enormous, beautiful, and intimidating without trying too hard, because unlike some of the decorative rooms upstairs, this place had clearly been used. Small scratches marked several plates. The turf carried faint lines from repeated sled work.

Park stood there for a moment, taking everything in before a grin slowly pulled at his mouth:

"Dad built himself a private Foundry. Madre mía."

It was not quite as massive as the real Foundry, obviously. That place handled entire groups of actors, trainers, performers, and professional athletes. This one belonged to a single family.

’Technically, sure. Also spiritually offensive.’

Park crossed the floor slowly, his body still sore enough to complain with every few steps. His thighs were the loudest, his calves were acting petty, and his shoulders had decided raising his arms should require a formal application, but the pain no longer frightened him.

It was just there, rude as hell and determined to be acknowledged.

He climbed onto one of the treadmills and touched the screen. It woke beneath his fingers, scanned him, then displayed his name over a clean blue interface.

{GOOD MORNING, PARK BENNETT.

SELECT TRAINING MODE!}

"Give me the one where I survive and remain beautiful."

The machine did not respond.

’Cold bitch.’

Park selected manual mode and began with a slow walk, letting his legs loosen instead of immediately trying to prove something and ending the morning folded behind the treadmill like expensive laundry. The first minute felt awful. Every step dragged against muscles Jim had abused yesterday, and his brain kept warning him to stop before the soreness got worse.

Park ignored and kept walking until heat began spreading through his legs, then raised the pace into a jog and felt the stiffness slowly start to crack apart.

The pain did not vanish completely, but it lost authority. His stride lengthened, his breathing settled, and the tightness softened enough for his body to remember what it had learned. Park raised the speed to nine kilometres an hour, then ten, then twelve without the same clumsy negotiation he had gone through yesterday.

By the time he pushed the treadmill to fourteen kilometres an hour, he was waiting for yesterday’s torture to come roaring back.

It came, but the bastard had lost weight.

The effort was still there.

His breathing grew heavier, sweat gathered beneath his hair, and his legs worked hard enough to remind him that improvement was not the same thing as becoming immortal overnight. Still, the pain and difficulty felt like maybe forty percent of what Jim had dragged him through.

Yesterday, fourteen kilometres an hour had felt like being chased through hell by someone holding his unpaid bills.

Today, it felt like hard running.

Hard, but manageable.

Park completed the same fifteen-minute intervals Jim had forced on him, resting between each before climbing back on. Every round confirmed the same insane truth; his body had not merely recovered during the night.

It had absorbed the session, broken it down, and rebuilt itself with the information.

The speed that had almost folded him yesterday had already become familiar ground.

By the final interval, Park was sweating hard and breathing through his mouth, but he was still upright, still controlled, and nowhere near the state where his lungs began drafting a goodbye letter.

"Perfect Crown," he muttered as the treadmill slowed. "You beautiful, cheating whore."

He drank water, gave himself several minutes, then moved straight to the blue turf and repeated the rest of Jim’s punishment. The sled pushes came first, same weight, same twenty metres down and back, same six rounds, except the metal frame no longer felt like it had developed a personal grudge against his bloodline.

It resisted, yes, and his thighs burned as he leaned forward and drove through his legs, but this time each push felt clean.

His back stayed braced, his steps remained short and powerful, and the sled moved instead of sitting there like a stubborn landlord refusing repairs.

Then came the kettlebell swings with twenty kilograms, sets of twenty, hips snapping forward while the weight floated instead of being dragged upward by his arms.

The battle ropes were still demonic.

Apparently, some exercises did not become pleasant after adaptation.

Park worked through all eight rounds, forty seconds on and thirty off, keeping the waves high even when his shoulders started burning and sweat slid down his spine beneath the shirt.

After that came the farmer’s carries, fifteen kilograms in each hand across forty metres. Yesterday, he had needed to stop before reaching the line because his grip had begun slipping and one shoulder dropped low enough for Jim to compare him to luggage losing a custody battle.

Today, Park made the entire distance without putting either weight down.

His hands hurt. His forearms burned.

The final ten metres felt like someone had quietly increased gravity.

He still made it.

Park lowered the weights carefully, flexed his fingers, and stared down at them with a satisfied grin.

"Yeah. Fuck both of you."

Once he had repeated everything from the Foundry session, Park gave himself a proper rest before heading into the strength section. His body had already survived plenty, and he had no intention of turning determination into stupidity by dropping a loaded bar onto his chest while alone in a basement.

The bench station had adjustable safety arms, which helped, but Park still warmed up with the empty bar and took his time letting his shoulders settle into the movement.

He started with fifteen-kilogram plates on either side. The bar came down under control, paused close to his chest, then rose smoothly as his chest and triceps worked together.

Ten repetitions came cleanly enough for him to rest and repeat before moving up to twenty-kilogram plates on both sides.

That weight immediately informed him that confidence and determination were both cute and gravity did not care.

The first press came up slower. The second moved better once his body understood what was being asked. By the sixth, his arms had started trembling, but Park kept his feet planted, shoulders tight against the bench, and pushed through two more controlled repetitions before setting the bar safely onto the hooks.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling while his chest rose and fell.

"Okay," he breathed. "That was hot."

Nobody was there to disagree.

Park moved to ten-kilogram dumbbells and worked through alternating biceps curls, keeping his elbows close instead of throwing his entire back into the movement like men who swung heavy weights around, completed half a repetition, then somehow told everyone they curled forty kilograms.

Hammer curls followed, then overhead triceps extensions, cable pushdowns, seated shoulder presses, incline dumbbell presses, and rows to make sure his back received attention too.

He tried lateral raises with the ten-kilogram dumbbells and discovered his shoulders had no interest in supporting his ego.

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