Phei sighed.
He was in quite the pickle right now.
Faced down by these two won—one holding a cheque like it was the Holy Grail dipped in daddy’s money, the other watching with eyes that sparkled with barely concealed victory like she’d just won the "Trap the Dragon" lottery—most people wouldn’t understand the concepts at play.
They’d think: just take the money and say no later when they ask for repaynt. Pretend you didn’t know there were strings attached. Play dumb.
Or they’d think: just refuse the cheque. Say thank you but no thank you. Walk away clean.
Anyone who thought either of those was a solution was soone who didn’t understand how power worked among elites. And especially not here in Paradise, where "no" was just a polite way of saying "please destroy slowly."
Refusing outright? That was rude. It created enemies faster than a leaked sex tape. It made you look like the ungrateful asshole who spat on soone’s kindness while wearing their charity shoes. Word would spread like herpes at a Legacy orgy.
Doors would close. Invitations would vanish. The Ashford na carried weight—refusing their generosity was refusing them, and people who refused the Ashfords didn’t tend to thrive in Paradise.
They tended to disappear.
And accepting blindly, planning to weasel out later? Even worse. That marked you as soone who didn’t understand the ga. Soone who could be manipulated. Soone who thought they were clever but was actually just naive enough to walk into traps and then act surprised when they snapped shut around your balls.
No.
The trick is to accept the gratitude without accepting the debt. Close the loop myself, before they could.
Phei looked at the cheque in his hand.
Then at Elena, still practically vibrating with excitent like a golden retriever who’d just fetched the murder weapon and expected a treat.
Then at the Madam, watching him with those cool, assessing eyes that gave nothing away except the faint promise of future suffering.
He smiled.
"Elena."
She perked up imdiately—like a puppy hearing its na and the treat bag rustling at the sa ti.
"Yes?"
"This is..." He let his gaze drop to the cheque, then back to her face, slow and deliberate. "Incredibly thoughtful of you. Truly. Most people in your position wouldn’t spare a second thought for soone like . They’d let Harold do whatever he wanted and consider it soone else’s problem. Probably laugh about it over champagne."
Her cheeks flushed pink with pleasure—actual, genuine delight—like she’d just been knighted by the king of hot boys.
"But you," he continued, voice warming until it could lt butter, "went out of your way. Convinced your mother. Arranged all of this. Just to help soone you barely know." He shook his head slowly, admiringly, like he was witnessing a miracle.
"That’s rare, Elena. That kind of generosity... it’s rare."
She was glowing now. Absolutely glowing. Radiating enough smug self-satisfaction to power a small city.
"I just—I an, it wasn’t that big a deal—"
"It was," he said firmly. "And I won’t forget it."
Before she could respond, she was already moving—rising on her toes, hands bracing on his shoulders, and pressing a quick, bold kiss to his cheek.
Her lips were soft. Warm. Lingered just a heartbeat longer than friendly—like she was marking territory with lip gloss and teenage delusion.
When she pulled back, her blue eyes were sparkling with triumph.
"You’re welco," she said sweetly.
Bold little thing. Phei sighed and stepped closer to the Madam.
Her expression didn’t change—still that perfect porcelain mask of Ashford composure—but he saw the subtle shift in her posture. The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers curled almost imperceptibly at her sides like she was imagining wrapping them around soone’s throat.
Probably mine.
"This is too generous of you," he said, voice lower now. More intimate. The kind of tone that should’ve been reserved for bedrooms, not boardrooms. "Let at least give you this in return. Right now."
He reached into his bag.
Pulled out the white envelope.
CLASSIFIED was stamped across the front in bold red letters—like it was daring anyone to open it and survive the consequences.
He held it out to her.
"You’ll find it very useful."
The Madam’s eyes dropped to the envelope. Lingered there. Then rose to et his.
She didn’t ask what it was.
Didn’t demand an explanation.
She simply took it—fingers brushing his for the briefest mont—and felt its weight.
Or rather, its lack of it.
The envelope was almost empty. Just paper. Maybe a few sheets at most.
But the way her expression flickered—the way her breath caught almost imperceptibly—told him she understood.
Whatever was inside that envelope wasn’t asured in grams.
It was asured in value.
Elena, anwhile, seed entirely unbothered. She was too busy staring at Phei like he’d hung the moon, replaying that cheek kiss in her head, probably already planning the next one—maybe on the mouth, maybe lower, maybe with tongue and witnesses.
Phei exhaled slowly.
Dodged.
He’d given Elena what she wanted—attention, recognition, the feeling that her actions mattered to him.
He’d made her feel seen. Appreciated. Important.
And he’d given the Madam sothing she couldn’t buy with all the Ashford fortune.
You control the repaynt. You set the value. You close the loop before they can.
The cheque was still in his hand. He’d taken it—that much was done. But now the scales were balanced. He’d accepted their favor and imdiately returned one of his own. No open debt. No hook left dangling.
Clean.
Well.
Almost clean.
Because the envelope hadn’t co from him.
He had Maya to thank for this.
Yesterday, when he’d ntioned he was visiting the Ashford Estate to deliver an apology, she’d told him that apologies worked better with gifts. Sothing to soften the words, to show sincerity, to demonstrate respect.
But what could Phei possibly give the Ashfords? They were richer than God. They had everything.
He’d had nothing to offer.
Then, this evening, as Maya said goodbye, she’d slipped this white envelope into his bag. Told him she’d left him sothing... and a note that said to not to open it. Just hand it to them.
Phei had planned to give it to whoever received the letter—so secretary, so functionary, so interdiary who would pass it along to the relevant people.
Instead, he’d ended up fucking the Madam on her desk, and the envelope had stayed in his bag.
He’d almost not given it at all... forgotten it between the sex with the goddess and Elena’s arrival and the fear of the approaching doom that he knew was going to end him.
But then the cheque happened. And Elena’s trap. And he’d needed sothing—anything—to balance the scales.
So, he’d handed it over.
Without checking.
Without knowing what was inside.
If there was one stupid thing Phei did—and he knew it was stupid even as he, did it—it was that he trusted Maya.
Completely.
Blindly.
The kind of trust that could get a man killed in Paradise if it was misplaced.
But Maya had never given him a reason to doubt her. Not once. And so he’d taken that envelope and handed it to the most powerful woman he’d ever t without even peeking inside.
Stupid.
Reckless.
Done.
The Madam slipped the envelope into her desk drawer without opening it.
Her expression gave nothing away.
But the weight of her gaze when she looked at him—just for a mont, just before the mask slid back into place—told him everything.
Whatever was in that envelope, it mattered.
And now they were even.
Phei sighed again.
He’d dodged Elena’s trap. Balanced the scales. Walked the tightrope between accepting and owing.
But he’d done it with another favor.
Maya’s favor.
The difference was—and this was the only thing that made it bearable—Maya was soone he’d grown comfortable owing.
So debts didn’t feel like chains.
So debts felt like roots.
And Maya?
Maya was soil he didn’t mind growing in.
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