Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

The penthouse suite at the Sovereign Grand was supposed to be empty.

Supposed to be.

Top floor. Luxury corner unit with a private wine fridge, heated marble floors, a fireplace no one used, and blackout curtains so thick they could suffocate sunlight.

The door slid open with a barely audible click. Two men entered, dressed in matching black suits and earpieces, the kind of look designed to say, 'we're not cops, but don't ask questions.'

They moved like they'd done this before. Not like assassins. No drama. Just clean, quiet work.

The taller one stepped in first. Sharp jawline, short black hair, and a mouth that looked permanently disappointed. His name was Adrian.

The second man—slimmer, more cautious—entered right behind him. Glasses. Blonde. A laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Younger, but not green.

"Clear," Adrian said after a sweep.

"Lock's reset," the second replied, typing something onto a small screen. "We've got fifteen minutes before hotel security syncs back."

Adrian nodded once and walked deeper into the suite. It was minimal. Immaculate. Sleek grays, smoked glass, and ambient lighting that adjusted by mood if you were rich enough to pretend emotions could be dimmed on command.

Everything looked untouched.

And that was the first problem.

"Where's his stuff?" Adrian muttered, opening the closet.

"Huh?" the younger one asked as he walked toward the nightstand.

"There's no suitcase."

True enough.

The closet had a full rack of designer pieces—jackets, slacks, shirts, some even still pinned—but no luggage. No duffel bag. No garment carrier.

"What the hell…"

The younger man opened a drawer. "Still has tags on these," he said, pulling out a crisp pair of slacks.

He frowned, flipped through another hanger. "So do these. This is all brand-new."

Adrian raised a brow. "Like… boutique display new?"

"Like—he bought them yesterday new." He reached into the paper bag on the dresser and pulled out a receipt. "Yep. All from them. Paid in full. No membership points. Just… black platinum card."

Adrian walked over. He looked at the receipt, then at the six shopping bags stacked neatly against the corner.

Every bag was filled with luxury items—still in their tissue wrap. Suits. Watches. A pair of Italian shoes with the soles untouched. A cologne box unopened. Even a phone box, its seal freshly torn but contents removed.

Adrian turned. "No suitcase. Just a guy who walked in and bought an entire wardrobe."

"You sure he's not a front?"

"No. He checked in himself," Adrian said. "We have lobby footage. No handlers. No entourage. He even carried his own bags."

"You mean these bags?" the younger one asked, holding up a Versaece one.

"Yeah."

"Dude looks like a lottery winner."

Adrian grunted. "There's no record of that either. We scanned every winner registry the last six months. No Lux Vaelthorn. No pseudonyms. No public claims. Not even a whisper on the darknet lottery bets."

They both went quiet for a second, just standing there, surrounded by untouched opulence and eerie stillness.

"This guy doesn't make sense," the younger muttered. "Rich people don't move like this."

Adrian nodded. "Old money brings baggage. Familiar brands. Scuffs. Luggage stickers from airports they don't remember."

He ran a finger across the dresser. "But this? This is how someone acts when they just became rich. Like today."

He pulled open the watch box. Inside sat a gleaming, ice-silver timepiece still wrapped in protective film.

"Brand-new," he muttered.

The younger agent lifted the cologne bottle. Still sealed. He turned it over. "$1,800 just to smell like money. Who drops that kind of cash unless they're trying to prove something?"

Adrian's jaw tightened. "And he doesn't post. Doesn't share. No social footprint. Doesn't flex. Doesn't leave a trace."

"That's the opposite of most new rich guys," the younger agreed.

"Exactly. Either he's so rich it doesn't matter—" Adrian turned toward the window "—or he doesn't know how long he'll have it."

They both fell quiet again.

Outside, the city glowed with predictable wealth. Neon signs. Rooftop lounges. But inside this suite, it felt like a museum—like someone had staged the illusion of wealth but hadn't lived in it long enough to make a dent.

"Do we have anything on him before he booked this place?" the younger one asked.

"Not really," Adrian said. "One flagged as a dormant asset activation. That's it. No job title. No former address. No history."

The younger paused. "You think she's right?"

Adrian turned. "Lady Lylith?"

"Yeah. That he's more than he seems."

Adrian didn't answer for a while. Then finally said, "I think she's obsessed."

"I think she wants to buy him."

"She can try."

The younger chuckled nervously. "I've seen her do worse for less."

Adrian snorted. "Let her flirt. We're here to work. Not play matchmaker."

He moved toward the main desk. "Plant the eyes."

The younger man reached into his laptop bag and pulled out two micro-cams—no bigger than shirt buttons. One with a magnetized base, the other with adhesive so thin it could cling to mist.

"Where?" he asked.

Adrian nodded toward the nightstand. "Back of the lamp. Angle it toward the bed."

The younger man crept over and gently peeled the adhesive. The camera blinked once. Green.

"First one planted."

Adrian moved toward the closet, opening a velvet-lined drawer beneath the hanging slacks. He tapped the underside once. "Here. His jewelry's here."

The second cam was magnetized to the edge of the drawer interior. Hidden behind the frame. A perfect blind spot—watching everything he might reach for.

"Done," the younger said.

They exchanged a look.

This wasn't normal. This wasn't routine.

But this man—Lux—wasn't either.

And even though they were humans working for a lamia queen with an unhealthy obsession and no shortage of illegal resources, something about all of this made their skin crawl.

No dust. No clutter. No fingerprints on the glass.

Just new things.

A closet full of luxury… and a man who'd walked in from nowhere.

"Let's go," Adrian said, turning toward the door.

"Think we'll get anything?"

Adrian shrugged. "If we don't, it'll tell us just as much."

They left the suite as quietly as they'd entered.

The door slid shut.

The lights dimmed.

And the cameras began to record.