Breakfast ended in brittle silence. Alex pushed back from the table the moment Evelyn set her fork down, murmuring a vague excuse about reviewing awakening theory notes. He didn't look at Lucas again. Didn't wait for anyone's permission.
He walked quickly through the corridors, footsteps echoing too loudly on marble. The mansion felt different now—larger, colder, invaded. Every corner that had once belonged to him alone now carried the invisible imprint of a stranger who looked too much like his father. James's face on another body. Same jaw, same eyes, same effortless command of space. Alex's stomach twisted every time the image replayed. He loved his mother more than anything—more than James, more than the guild legacy, more than his own uncertain awakening—but James was still his father. Seeing that face duplicated, casual, and smirking across the table felt like theft.
He reached his suite, slammed the door harder than intended, then stood in the middle of the room breathing hard. The rage wouldn't settle. It coiled tighter instead, burning behind his ribs until he couldn't stand still.
He turned on his heel and headed straight for the east wing—Evelyn's private quarters.
Sophia caught up to him halfway down the corridor, purple hair swaying as she hurried to match his stride.
"Young master," she said, voice low and urgent. "Madam does not permit anyone in her private space. Not even—"
Alex didn't slow. "I need to talk to her."
"Alex." Sophia's hand brushed his arm—gentle, pleading. "Please. She will not appreciate the intrusion."
He shook her off—not roughly, but firmly. "I don't care."
Sophia fell silent and stopped following. He felt her eyes on his back all the way to the heavy double doors at the end of the wing—ebony inlaid with void runes that shimmered faintly when unauthorized people approached. They parted for him without resistance. Evelyn had keyed them to recognize her son years ago.
The private quarters opened into a vast, dimly lit antechamber: black marble floors, low violet lighting, air scented with jasmine and something darker—smoky oud. Alex moved through without pausing, past the sitting area, past the sealed library door, until he reached the bedroom.
Empty. The massive bed—silk sheets in deep indigo, canopy draped in shadow-silk—untouched. He kept going, drawn by the faint sound of fabric rustling from the adjoining dressing room.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
Evelyn stood in the center of the mirrored space, half-dressed. The purple dress from breakfast lay pooled at her feet like spilled wine. She wore only black lace lingerie—bra cups straining to contain the heavy swell of her breasts, the sheer fabric doing nothing to hide the dark peaks of her nipples pressing against it. Matching panties rode high on her hips, cutting across the smooth expanse of her toned abdomen and the flare of her ass. Sweat from earlier training still glistened in the hollow of her throat, along her collarbones, between the deep valley of her cleavage. Chestnut hair cascaded loose down her back, strands clinging damply to her shoulders.
Alex's breath caught. His eyes locked on her chest—those impossible curves rising and falling with each slow inhale. Heat flooded his face, crimson and immediate. Blood roared in his ears, then surged lower, thickening between his legs with shameful speed. He felt himself harden against the front of his trousers, the sudden ache almost painful.
Evelyn's cold eyes met his in the mirror.
For one endless second, neither moved.
Then Alex stumbled backward, stammering, "I—I'm sorry—Mother—I didn't—"
He turned and fled to the attached study, slamming the door behind him. Heart hammering, face burning, cock still traitorously hard. He pressed his back to the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the image away. It wouldn't leave.
Behind the dressing-room door, Evelyn adjusted the straps of the fresh dress she was stepping into—a sleek black sheath that would hug every curve like armor. She didn't speak.
Rose—her personal maid, Sophia's mother—stood behind her, mid-fifties but carrying the kind of ripe, unapologetic sensuality that made younger women look insipid. Purple bob haircut, sharp and glossy, full lips painted crimson, body poured into a more revealing version of the maid uniform: bodice unlaced at the top to show generous cleavage, skirt slit high on one thigh. She had been lacing Evelyn into the new dress, fingers deft and familiar.
Rose's eyes sparkled with mischief as she tugged the zipper up Evelyn's back.
"You knew he was coming, my lady," she teased, voice low and playful. "Did you want to see how he'd react? Poor boy looked ready to combust."
Evelyn smoothed the fabric over her hips, expression bored.
"I just didn't care."
Rose laughed softly, a sound like velvet over steel. "Liar."
Evelyn didn't answer. She turned toward the study door where her son hid, eyes narrowing slightly. Behind that calm mask, something darker stirred—curiosity, perhaps, or the first faint ripple of something she refused to name.
***
Lucas's new room occupied the entire western wing of the mansion's upper floor—a suite that could have swallowed his old apartment three times over and still had space left for contempt. He pushed the double doors open and stopped dead in the entryway.
Black marble floors veined with silver mana conduits reflected the recessed violet lighting like a night sky trapped under glass. The walls were paneled in dark obsidian and polished teak, etched with faint protective runes that pulsed softly when he moved past them.
A king-sized bed dominated one wall—frame carved from single pieces of dungeon-core ebony, sheets of black silk that shifted color subtly under the light. Floor-to-ceiling windows curved into a panoramic balcony that overlooked the private estate gardens: rare mana-bloomed night orchids glowing pale blue, ancient silver-maple trees engineered to thrive on ambient mana, the distant shimmer of the Han River under Seoul's skyline.
He walked out onto the balcony barefoot, cool night air brushing his skin. The railing was cool, wrought iron infused with barrier enchantments—strong enough to stop a mid-rank strike. He leaned on it, staring down at the glowing flora below, and felt something hot and sharp rise in his chest.
He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket—cheap brand he'd bought with his last delivery paycheck—and lit it with a flick of the cheap lighter he still carried. The first drag burned his throat; he exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night. His free hand clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles whitened.
Excitement. Pure, vicious excitement.
His mind drifted back to the SUV ride from the alley. James Vanderbilt—his father—had sat beside him in the back seat, voice low and unsteady.
"I never knew," James had said, staring out the tinted window like the city lights could absolve him. "She never told me. I swear on everything I have, Lucas—I would have come for you. Both of you. I promised her once… I promised I'd take care of her. I failed. But I won't fail you."
Lucas had stared straight ahead, blood still drying on his lip, ribs aching from the kicks. He hadn't spoken. Just listened while James kept talking—apologies, promises, explanations that sounded rehearsed and raw at the same time. The man looked like he hadn't slept in days. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking when he handed Lucas the folder with the DNA results.
Everything felt like a prank. A cruel, elaborate joke. Who the hell pranks the Vanderbilts? No one. That was the point.
Lucas took another drag, flicked ash over the railing, and watched it spiral down into the glowing garden. He turned back inside.
On the low ebony table by the sofa sat the "gifts." Two sets of car keys—matte-black fobs for a limited-edition Valkyrie and a custom mana-tuned Bugatti Chiron—gleaming under the light. Beside them, a sleek black credit card with no visible limit, the Vanderbilt crest embossed in silver. And the Apex Vanguard VIP card—gold-edged, embedded with a micro-rune that would grant him instant access to guild resources, protection details, private awakening chambers, anything he wanted.
He picked up the VIP card, turned it over in his fingers, and felt the faint hum of embedded mana against his skin. A maniacal laugh escaped him—low at first, then louder, raw and unrestrained. He dropped onto the sofa, legs spread wide, head tipped back against the cushion.
The laugh died into a slow, predatory smirk.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbed open the hidden locker app—encrypted, password-protected, buried under three layers of fake folders. The screen is filled with images.
Evelyn Vanderbilt.