Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation-Chapter 654: The Fake [Part 2]
Chapter 654 – The Fake [Part 2]
A public shot. Recent. Watermarked with one of the high-end spa’s brand logos.
Vincent stared at the screen.
So the real one was back.
And yeah. He would find out.
It wasn’t a question of if. Just when.
Vincent exhaled through his nose. "So... this is the last round."
His thumb hovered over the screen. Then tapped. Then tapped again. One by one, he deleted all the flirty messages from earlier. Erased the pictures. Cleared the evidence. Tucked the phone into his robe pocket and rose.
No trace. No crumbs. No scandal.
Vincent Albrecht might’ve been impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid.
He walked back toward the desk, the hem of his robe brushing his calves, still slightly damp from the post-threesome shower. The air in the penthouse was chilled, and not just from the overpowered AC. The kind of cold that came when all the fun was gone and only the consequences lingered.
The desk was a nest of layered alibis.
An open laptop showed an active hotel booking. Like he had been there since a week ago, under his real name, real card, real ID. At the Sandrose Summit Hotel in Westfall Bay. Just far enough from tonight’s event to make a legal fuss complicated. He even had the check-in timestamped with pre-scheduled confirmation. Hell, he even had a food delivery order en route to that room right now. One burner phone was synced to the Westfall hotel Wi-Fi.
He had a stand-in. Paid. Prepped. Trained. Similar face. Same height. Hair bleached. Body language coached, pretending to be him.
Piece of cake.
If the real Lux wanted to sue him?
He had a perfect alibi. Not just one. Layers. Like a mille-feuille of plausible deniability.
He leaned back in the desk chair and stretched, arms over his head, robe falling just enough to expose his collarbone and chest. A smug grin crept across his lips.
"So..." he murmured, glancing toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
"Tonight’s gala is the last one, huh?"
It would be poetic, in a way. One last night. One last performance. A final masquerade as the man everyone whispered about. He wasn’t planning to return after this. The whole point of using Lux’s name was to siphon attention, not keep it.
But.
But...
Tonight had to be special.
Because tonight wasn’t just for fun.
It was for revenge.
Vincent stood slowly, walking across the cool tile toward the minibar. He didn’t pour wine this time. He needed clarity, not haze. Instead, he grabbed a chilled bottle of mineral water, twisted the cap off, and took a long sip.
He could still hear her voice.
Clear. Icy. Disdainful.
Not screaming.
Just disappointed.
That woman. That insufferably perfect woman.
She didn’t just reject him. She humiliated him.
Back then, he’d tried to be polite. Gentlemanly. Approachable. Thought she’d be flattered. After all, he was Vincent Albrecht. One of the youngest private fund tycoons in the quadrant. His name opened doors. His money opened more. He was clean-cut, refined, and well-connected.
And she had the audacity to look him up and down like he was a stain on her glass.
Worse?
He hadn’t even flirted that aggressively. Not at first.
It was a simple comment about her dress at the investment gala two years ago. Something about how the silk paired with her hair. She responded with a nod, then turned her back.
He followed up.
She told him to get lost.
He grabbed her just once. Once! And she didn’t shout. Didn’t slap.
She made him kneel.
Right there, in front of a crowd, with a single cutting sentence about how "men who can’t even calculate their own value shouldn’t try to appraise others."
And the worst part?
People laughed.
He wasn’t a predator. He wasn’t even being creepy. But she treated him like a drunk idiot. And now, every time he saw her name in a financial mag or on an invitation list, the memory burned like acid in the back of his throat.
Mira Xianlong.
Eastern dragon heiress.
Everyone loved her.
Perfect hair. Perfect manners. Perfect arrogance.
Lately, rumors said she was dating someone.
She hadn’t announced it, of course. Too private for that. But the whispers were enough. A glimpse of her laughing on a boat. A touch too close to a man in a velvet coat. No confirmation, no denial.
Didn’t matter.
All Vincent needed to know was that she was into men.
And that meant...
He could use Lux’s name to seduce her.
It didn’t need to be forever. Didn’t need a full affair. Just one night. A whisper in her ear. A brush of fingers. An invitation slipped into her hand. A night she’d think about for weeks before realizing it meant nothing.
And in the morning?
He’d have proof. A picture. A timestamp. Maybe a smear of lipstick on his shirt and a message from her phone saved to his server.
Then?
He’d dump her.
Publicly, if needed.
He’d ruin her.
Tank her pristine image with a well-timed leak. No scandal needed. Just enough innuendo. A few seeded headlines. "Eastern Heiress Linked to Controversial Heir." "Night of Passion with Mysterious Billionaire."
It would be delicious.
And best of all?
He’d be untouchable.
No one could trace it back. Lux would take the hit. Mira would take the fall. Vincent would disappear with his alibis airtight and his name unscathed.
He walked toward the closet, sliding it open. Inside hung tonight’s suit. Black velvet. Double-breasted. Tailored to mimic Lux’s usual style. Enchanted cuffs. The exact charm ring Lux wore, copied, not real, but close enough to fool any idiot.
He touched the sleeve and smiled.
"Yeah," he whispered, voice low and curling.
"I need to perform nicely."
He tilted his head toward the ceiling, eyes glinting with venom.
"Just wait..."
He grinned. Full. Sharp. Predatory.
"Mira Xianlong... I’ll make you cry."
He stepped closer to the mirror. Adjusted his collar. Ran his fingers through his hair. Practiced the smirk again, the Lux smirk. The one with a touch of lazy cruelty, the promise of sin wrapped in satin.
"I’ll ruin your reputation."
His voice was almost playful now.
"I’ll make you dead... economically."
And this time?
No one would stop him.
Not even the real Lux.
At least... that’s what he thought.
