Evil MC's NTR Harem

Lois's breath caught. She understood immediately, and the realization made her stomach churn.

Her mind screamed at her to move, to do something—but her body refused.

It would almost have been easier if Ross had simply forced himself on her.

That way, she could at least tell herself she had no choice.

But to take that step willingly, to cross that line with her own hands, even for her sister's sake… it was a weight she wasn't sure she could bear.

Ross let the silence linger, studying her every twitch and breath.

Then, almost casually, he pulled his chair back in, the faint scrape of the wheels a final note of dismissal.

"I guess not," he said, his tone now as flat as paper. "Have a good day, Miss Johnson. Please close the door when you leave."

Her feet felt heavy as she turned toward the exit, the air in the room thick with the things left unsaid.

Behind her, she heard the faint shuffle of papers as Ross returned to his work, pen scratching against the page as though she were already forgotten.

And yet… she knew he wasn't done with her. Not by a long shot.

***

"What am I doing?" Lois muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with anger and shame.

She couldn't believe it—couldn't believe she had almost fallen into Ross Oakley's trap.

Just the thought of it made her pulse quicken and her skin crawl.

The idea that she had nearly crossed a line, nearly betrayed her boyfriend, made bile rise in her throat.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting the sudden wave of nausea.

She paced the small space of her apartment, hands clenching and unclenching.

Every step seemed to echo her frustration.

How could I even let it get that far?

Ross was dangerous, manipulative, the kind of man who could make you forget every red flag in a single charming smile.

She had known that—she had warned others about that—yet for a brief, terrifying moment, she had been ready to ignore her own advice.

Taking a long, deep breath, Lois forced herself to stop moving and close her eyes. She needed to focus, to think.

"I just need to trust my sister," she whispered, almost like a prayer.

"I've already warned her. Laura's smart… she's not naive enough to fall for Ross."

Still, the knot in her stomach refused to loosen.

She pictured Laura's face, her soft smile, her tendency to see the good in people—even when there was none to be found.

Ross thrived on people like that. And that was what terrified Lois the most.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, fingers tangling in her hair.

"I'll call her again. Later today," she decided aloud, her tone firm but laced with uncertainty.

She had done everything she could—warned her sister, laid out the truth, begged her to keep her guard up.

Now, all she could do was wait and hope her words had been enough.

But deep down, Lois knew waiting might be the hardest part.

***

A week later, Laura's long-anticipated meeting with Ross Oakley finally took place.

Paris was at its most romantic that afternoon—golden light spilled through the tall windows of her gallery, illuminating the polished hardwood floors and casting warm shadows over the rows of paintings.

The air carried the faint scent of oil paint and varnish, mingling with the delicate aroma of fresh roses arranged near the entrance.

This gallery was her sanctuary, a place where her passion for painting had blossomed into both a career and a personal refuge.

She was one of the fortunate few who could make a living doing what they loved, and every brushstroke on the walls was a testament to years of discipline and creative fire.

"Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Oakley," Laura greeted with a bright, confident smile, stepping forward to offer her hand.

"It feels like I've known you all my life—your face is practically everywhere in the news these days." Her tone was warm, almost playful, but her eyes were sharp, quietly observing the man she had heard so much about.

The warnings from her sister Lois lingered faintly in her mind, but Laura had always been steadfast in her principles.

She didn't believe in letting rumors, media portrayals, or even family influence dictate her judgment.

She would decide for herself who Ross Oakley truly was.

Ross's smile was smooth, practiced yet charming, his gaze meeting hers with a quiet intensity that seemed to draw people in.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Johnson," he replied, taking her offered hand with a firm but pleasant grip.

"I recently had the chance to explore some of your work, and I must say—your collection is truly something special. Unique, even."

Laura felt a faint heat rise to her cheeks—not from flattery alone, but from the way Ross said it, as though he were letting her in on a secret no one else had noticed.

"Thank you," she said, her voice steady but her mind curious. "Art is a conversation, after all. I'm glad my work speaks to you."

Ross glanced briefly at the painting behind her—a striking piece dominated by bold strokes of red and black.

"It doesn't just speak," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It provokes. It challenges. That's rare… and dangerous, in the best way."

The choice of words caught her attention. Dangerous.

She wasn't sure if he meant the art—or himself.

The two spent the afternoon in easy but engaging conversation, their dialogue flowing as naturally as if they had known each other for years.

They began with an elegant lunch at one of Paris's finest restaurants—a place where soft piano music mingled with the quiet clink of crystal glasses, and the waiters moved with the grace of stage performers.

Ross, ever the gentleman, insisted she try the chef's signature dish, and their conversation ranged from art and culture to travel and personal philosophies.

They talked and had fun with each other's company.