The jet’s interior was pure, unapologetic obscenity.

Cream leather seats wide enough to sleep three people comfortably. Polished wood accents that probably cost more than most people’s entire education. Ambient lighting that shifted through warm, seductive tones like the aircraft itself was mood-conscious and slightly horny.

A full bar stocked with bottles whose labels Phei has been seeing since he was young from the galas his parents had always dragged him to as a child — back when private jets were just how the family moved between Tokyo and Paradise, between Paradise and his mother’s parents in Suzhou.1

He hadn’t been in anything like this in the last ten years.

Growing up, things had turned the way they turned.

And all of it was a slow, choking suffocation of a life that should have been his — stolen away piece by piece until he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to exist in spaces designed for people who owned the damn world.

Now he had the means to rent a private jet for the whole chaotic gang. His money. His decision. His women settling into seats that cost more per square inch than luxury apartments in most cities.

Most of them moved through the cabin with the easy, entitled comfort of people raised in excess. Sierra chose her seat with aristocratic precision, like she was granting the leather the honor of her presence.

Maddie threw herself into hers like she was conquering new territory and claiming it in the name of chaos. Melissa glided toward the rear with the quiet authority of a woman who had probably owned jets before she turned twenty.

Even Emily — middle-class Emily, whose family networked with Legacies but never quite reached their heights — navigated the space with practiced familiarity.

Valentina was the exception.

She stood near the entrance a moment too long, eyes tracking across the cabin with barely concealed wonder. Her fingers brushed the leather armrest like she was checking to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

She made good money — enough for first class, enough for comfort — but this level of luxury existed in a dimension she’d only ever glimpsed through windows or glossy magazine pages.

Phei caught her wrist, gentle but firm.

He guided his woman to the seat beside him, she settled in, still processing, and he watched the emotions flicker across her face—awe giving way to uncertainty giving way to something that looked almost like guilt.

"Hey."

She turned to him—her dark curls framing her face, cream crop top hugging curves she’d stopped hiding around him, smooth brown skin catching the ambient light like it had been painted by someone in love with the color. Beautiful. His.

"We never actually talked," he said quietly. "How you got fired."

Valentina’s expression flickered. "There wasn’t much to say, honey. I lost my job because I couldn’t keep my hands off a certain godly residence. Classic cautionary tale for future generations."

"Looking for another job would be useless."

She blinked. "What?"

"You don’t need to work anymore, Valentina."

"I—" She stopped. Started again. "Phei, I can’t just—"

"Sit down. Enjoy your man’s money. You’ll never lack for anything ever again."

It came out arrogant. He knew it sounded arrogant. But with a hundred million from the challenge, over a hundred fifty billion on the black card, and hundreds of billions more in inheritance finally unlocked—why the hell wouldn’t he be arrogant? Why wouldn’t he spoil his woman until she forgot what worry even tasted like?

Valentina opened her mouth to protest.

Closed it.

Looked at him—searching for the joke, the catch, the fine print that would make this make sense.

Found nothing but absolute certainty staring back.

"You’re serious."

"Always."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then something in her shoulders finally released—tension she’d been carrying since the termination notice, maybe longer. She leaned into him, cheek pressing against his chest, curls spilling across his shirt like dark silk.

"This is insane," she murmured.

"Get used to it."

They were airborne by the time she finally relaxed completely, her breathing evening out against him, her body warm and soft and trusting in ways that made his chest feel dangerously tight.

Maya sat to his right. As always. The silver-haired mystery who had simply attached herself to his life and refused to explain why, existing in his orbit like she had always been there and always would be.

He turned to her.

"Selene’s mother had a message for you."

Maya’s violet eyes sharpened with instant attention.

"She wanted me to tell you that you’re welcome. In her home. In the family." He watched the words land, watched something fragile and hopeful bloom behind her careful composure. "She said anyone important to me is important to her."

For a moment she looked younger than he’d ever seen her—not the enigmatic presence who drifted through his life with knowing smiles and cryptic observations, but a girl who had just been told she had a place.

A home. A mother figure who had accepted her sight unseen.

"She..." Maya’s voice wavered. "She doesn’t even know me."

"She knows I chose you. That’s enough for her."

Maya’s smile bloomed slow and real, none of her usual mystery, just pure unguarded joy.

She leaned into him from the other side, arms wrapping around his torso in a hug that said everything words couldn’t.

He held her for a moment. Then: "I told Mother and Diana to come too. Later, after we settle in."

Maya pulled back, frowning. "Phei. Let the woman rest. She’s been through—"

"No." He chuckled softly. "I want to spoil her. So much. She deserves it."

What he didn’t tell Maya was the other reason.

Healing Touch. Level 10.

He was going to heal her completely. Every lingering damage, every old wound, every trace of whatever had been slowly stealing her strength. He’d called her to Hell’s Paradise Island so he could fix what time and illness had broken, so she could watch him succeed, so she could see the son she’d helped raise standing on top of the world with nothing but good things ahead.

She’d never lack for anything. Ever again.

Maya seemed to sense there was more. She always did. But she didn’t push — just hugged him again, tighter this time, and let the silence say what it needed to say.

He looked around the cabin.

His world, contained in pressurized luxury at thirty thousand feet.

Cassiopeia and Sienna sat facing each other near the middle. Sienna’s attention was buried in her phone—watching something, judging something, existing in that detached space she occupied whenever she wasn’t actively terrifying people.

Cassiopeia stared at her with an intensity that could drill through steel, clearly bursting with the mission updates, and world-ending details she was dying to deliver.

She’d tried earlier. He’d stopped her.

"Enjoy the quiet," he’d told her. "The peaceful presence of real family. We’ll get to the apocalypse later."

She’d chilled. Reluctantly. But she’d chilled.

Victoria was laughing into her phone, Delilah beside her, both animated in conversation with whoever was on the other end. Had to be Nastya and Gianna—the Romano sisters, still MainParadise, probably demanding updates and threatening violence if they weren’t included in every single detail.

Melissa sat like a queen in the rear section. Eyes closed.

But he knew her well enough to see the millions of worries churning behind that serene mask—calculations, contingencies, and all the weight she carried so others didn’t have to.

Patricia Bloom sat beside her, anticipation for Hell’s Paradise Island practically radiating off her skin, though she did an admirable job hiding it behind her iPad and an expression of professional calm.

Maddie had claimed a cluster of seats and turned them into a full chaos zone. Sierra sat with her cracking into occasional smiles. Amber looked overwhelmed but happy, still recalibrating exactly what she’d signed up for.

Yuki had somehow produced a tablet and was explaining something technical while Amber visibly fought the urge to flee.

And Elena—the Virgin Succubus herself—had inserted herself into their group with the ease of someone who had decided these were her people now and hadn’t bothered asking permission.

The whole group. Making bonds. Holding their own quiet worries. Being the beautiful, ridiculous chaos gremlins, they were.

Landon and Cherry existed in their own little bubble near the front—cloud nine of new romance, stealing glances, sharing whispers, probably already planning their next three dates.

Young love. Nauseating. Beautiful.

Emily and her assistants had turned three seats into a mobile command center through sheer willpower. Catrina and Lydia flanked her, all three buried in tablets and phones and whatever logistics nightmare came with coordinating a trip of this magnitude.

While everyone else anticipated what Phei had prepared, these three hadn’t rested. Everything had to be perfect.

Everything was thanks to them!

And Brian—

Phei’s eyes found him near the bar.

He’d already cornered a flight attendant. Beautiful girl—warm brown skin glowing under the cabin lights, tight curls pulled back from a face that belonged on magazine covers, curves that her uniform was losing the battle against.

She had that look—half-skeptical, half-intrigued, fully aware she was being played and not entirely opposed to seeing where it went.

She’d actually sat down now. Brian had convinced a working flight attendant to abandon her duties and sit with him, and he was leaning in close, promising her whatever he promised girls—the particular brand of attention that made women forget they had other plans.

Phei shook his head.

Not quite at his own speed, but Brian was a sharp shooter. The boy didn’t miss.

Landon glanced over from his romance bubble. Watched Brian work. Looked back at Cherry. Looked at Brian again.

The jealousy was visible from low Earth orbit.

Phei laughed—quiet, genuine, the sound lost in the ambient hum of the engines.

His people. His chaos. His life, finally taking the shape it was always meant to have.