Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Sira leaned back in her chair, satisfied. "You should've told him not to bring the cheap wine just in case."

"I didn't realize the most expensive was a category with subcategories."

"With mortals? Everything is a category with subcategories."

He let that sit. His body felt both heavy and light, the good kind of worn—like he'd spent himself on purpose and now his bones were a drum that hummed with the city.

Under the table, Sira's bare foot slipped along his calf, cool against his skin.

He glanced at her, the edge of a smile tugging his mouth.

She didn't pretend innocence.

The system nudged again.

[Attention Index: 103]

[Photographic Attempts: 3]

'Typical,' he thought.

"Thinking about money?" Sira asked dryly, eyes lazy-lidded with satisfaction and amusement in equal measure.

"I breathe through it," he said. "I'm also thinking about coffee."

"Your only addiction."

"Not really."

"There's another one?"

He tipped his chin at her.

She gave the most Pride answer in existence—her smirk became absolute.

The waiter returned with the wine, nerves taped together by duty. He held up the bottle so they could admire a label draped in script and heritage. Sira didn't look.

"Let it breathe for exactly two minutes," she said. "Then pour."

"Yes, miss."

Lux's coffees arrived with unceremonious speed. He took the Americano first, inhaling the steam. It smelled like earth and fire and decisions.

The first sip hit his tongue bitter and clean—nothing like Hell's nectars, and somehow better for being so loud about not pretending.

Sira watched him with naked curiosity, like she was trying to decide if she needed to be jealous of a beverage. "Well?"

"I get why mortals write novels in cafés now," he said. "It tastes like you're going to get something done."

"So it's your equivalent of foreplay for spreadsheets."

"Don't diminish it."

"Too late."

He lifted the tiny espresso cup and knocked it back like a vow. His pulse steadied in a way that felt… constructive.

Food arrived in a parade that smelled like butter deciding to become an aura. The caviar was black stars on porcelain, the brioche a golden cloud with edges just flirting with crisp.

Sira broke a slice with her fingers and made a hum indecent enough to count as a side dish.

The lobster omelet followed, puffed and fragrant, gleaming where butter pooled in folds of the egg.

Lux's steak and eggs landed with a quieter sort of authority—sizzling meat, golden yolks trembling like they were daring him to break them, yogurt in a chilled bowl, toast cut with clean precision.

They ate for a while without talking, the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of the room filling in the space.

Lux had that morning calm—not peace exactly, but that mental slow-burn where each bite was catalogued.

Across from him, Sira was more casual—luxury always looked like it came easy to her, like she was half-distracted by an invisible audience.

"How long are you staying in this hotel?" she asked between a bite of omelet and a sip of her wine.

Lux cut another piece of steak, chewing before answering. "Until next week. In a few days, I will move to a mansion."

Her brow arched. "Why not now?"

"The previous owner's still in my new place," he said, tone flat but edged with something dry. "Beberly Hills. I took the mansion over when a billionaire went bankrupt."

Sira paused mid-bite, tilting her head at him. "Your doing?"

He nodded once.

A slow, amused hum left her. "Hmm… give me the address. I'll kick him out."

Lux smirked faintly. "You'll need clothes first. We'll go shopping after this."

She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, her gaze narrowing in mock offense. "Excuse me? You want me to wear mortal fabrics?"

"You're wearing mortal-made fabric right now," Lux said, glancing at the robe draped around her.

Her expression didn't change, but her voice softened in mock defense. "I tolerated this because you wore it before me. I can smell your scent on it."

"True," Lux admitted without argument.

"I'll have my servants send my clothes," she said, dismissing the idea of mortal boutiques entirely. "Don't worry."

"Fine," Lux replied, though his smirk suggested he wasn't conceding much.

She leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine lazily. "Also… I've noticed a lot of women here taking interest in you."

"Yeah," Lux said without even looking up from his plate. Then, almost as an afterthought, his eyes flicked sideways—right to the same two women he'd noticed yesterday.

He didn't know if they were regulars or if they'd made a point of being here because he was. They were at the far end, perfectly framed by the restaurant's glass panels, pretending to chat while throwing glances like they thought they were subtle.

"They've got their eyes on you," Sira said, her voice edged with amusement.

"I know."

"I hate public places like this," she said, flicking her gaze toward a different table now. "Especially when I have to mix with mortals."

"They're not that bad."

"Not all bad," she allowed. But then her gaze slid toward a man in the corner—older, well-fed, with the kind of face that had never been told "no" enough times.

The cut of his suit screamed old money, and the smug, lazy way he watched the room said he thought he could buy anything in it.

"Some," Sira said, her tone dipping lower, "are rotten. That one… I'd like to drag him to my father's torture chamber."

Lux didn't even have to look at the man to know exactly the type she meant. The kind who treated wealth like a divine right, who looked at people like they were assets to liquidate.

He leaned back in his chair, letting his coffee sit between his hands, heat threading through his fingers. "Don't. You'll spoil your breakfast."

Her eyes stayed on the man a beat longer before she finally returned to her plate. "Maybe. But I'd enjoy it."

"Not doubting that," Lux said, sipping his coffee. "Just saying—save it for dessert."

That earned him the faintest curl of her mouth, the kind of smile that was less about humor and more about letting him know she was picturing it anyway.

The system pinged quietly at the edge of his mind, whispering data about the room's attention levels, about who was looking and for how long. He didn't need the numbers to know the truth—every time Sira shifted in her seat, eyes tracked her. Every time he moved, more heads turned.

The thought almost made him laugh. If they stayed here much longer, someone was going to get bold enough to try something stupid.

And honestly? He wasn't sure if he wanted to leave before that happened… or wait to see who'd be first.