They came to a halt near a massive estate. Kuro gave two sharp honks, and the towering black gates creaked open, operated by two guards who looked like they could bench press a car without breaking a sweat.
The mansion loomed ahead like it had come straight out of a billionaire's Pinterest board. White, sleek, and absurdly glassy, it shimmered in the sunlight like it was showing off.
The architecture was clean and cutting-edge—sharp angles, open spaces, and that subtle "I-have-more-money-than-your-whole-town" vibe.
A pristine swimming pool stretched along the side, flanked by white marble and ambient lighting that probably cost more than her college tuition.
Up on the rooftop, a sculpted fountain gurgled peacefully in the center, like it wasn't aware of how ridiculously fancy it was.
Ciry's car rolled in first, followed by five sleek black vehicles, each carrying Ryu's guards—also known as "Men Who Look Like They Don't Blink."
At the grand entrance, a neat line of maids dressed in all black stood waiting like gothic flight attendants.
As soon as Ryu stepped out of the car, they bowed in unison and said, "Welcome," in a perfectly synchronized chorus that gave Ciry mild cult vibes.
She stepped out behind him, her flip flops clicking softly on the polished driveway, trying not to look too impressed—but wow. This place had "drama" and "direct deposit" written all over it.
She already knew who Ryu was—everyone with Wi-Fi did. The youngest billionaire at twenty-four, worth billions of dollars, dominating every platform, whether it's by unveiling a fresh clothing or jewelry line or dropping a photo that sets the internet on fire.
Girls her age lost their minds over him, treating him like some kind of Greek god who'd traded Olympus for a private jet.
Not her.
To Ciry, Ryu was the human equivalent of a storm cloud in a suit. Sure, he had a jawline that could slice bread, but his attitude? Arctic. If brooding were a job, he'd be CEO.
Her heart, however, was set on Luka—the adorable, wide-eyed singer who smiled like sunshine and didn't look like he ran a criminal empire in his spare time.
They entered the living room and she froze mid-step.
The place was insane.
The theme was black—elegant black, like "rich villain headquarters" black. A giant wall screen dominated one wall, easily the size of a small theater screen. The couches were plush, velvety, and deep enough to lose a toddler in.
Crystal chandeliers hung like floating stars, and the shelves were filled with rare artifacts and designer objects that screamed, "I bought this because I could."
Even the air smelled expensive. Was that... imported cedar?
Her bags were already being carried in by the maids, who moved with robotic precision. She almost felt guilty watching them—until one of them winked at her and whispered, "He's nicer once he's had coffee."
Ciry wasn't so sure.
Ryu hadn't even looked back once. Typical.
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Great. I live in a palace run by Batman with a worse attitude."
Ciry walked briskly to her assigned room, expecting it was her room, just hers. Alone. She opened the door—and froze.
Her eyes widened. This wasn't a room—it was a declaration of luxury.
The balcony featured a Jacuzzi whose walls were crystallized, sparkling as if dusted with fairy magic, while the handles gleamed sleek and untouched.
Glassy French doors framed the walls, letting light in like the sun was paying rent.
A king-sized bed sat like a throne, flanked by sleek black-themed couches and a wardrobe that could probably fit a small family.
The decor screamed "Fast & Luxurious." Pictures of cars zooming through deserts, racetracks, and icy roads lined the walls like a shrine to speed.
At the far end, screens curved in a perfect semi-circle, facing a single seat like it was the command center of a spaceship.
She stepped in, mouth open in a silent "wow," marveling at it all. Then she spotted the shelf—trophies gleaming behind glass. They practically shouted "Ryu is a legend!" in unison.
She squinted. "What are these trophies for?" she mumbled. "cold hearted man of the year? Worst moods awards? Best brooding stare?"
Then a horrifying realization hit her. "Wait... am I supposed to sleep in the same bed with him? What if I get pregnant just from the proximity?!"
She jumped onto the bed—only to sink so far into the plush mattress that she bounced back up like a startled meerkat. She scrambled off and marched to her unopened suitcases with the determination of a woman on a mission.
From a hidden pocket in her luggage, she pulled out a slim glass vial filled with a ominously swirling purple liquid. She held it up to the light, grinning like a cartoon villain unveiling their master plan.
Plan A may have flopped, she thought. But Plan B? Oh, Plan B has a solid ninety percent chance of glorious chaos.
She changed into a cropped top and tight floral pants that clung like ambition, ending just above her knees. Downstairs, the maids were busy setting dinner, a synchronized dance of trays and cutlery.
By the time she walked in—poised, calm, a schemer in stylish pants—the table was set. She took a seat with a practiced air of innocence.
The maids filed out in eerie unison, like she was about to conduct a secret council meeting.
Ciry took the vial from her pocket and popped it open like a pro. With the grace of someone performing a sacred ritual—or petty vengeance—she let a few careful drops fall into the jar of apple juice.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement.
A woman stood by the archway, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. The butler. Tall, sharp, with blonde hair tied so tight it looked like her thoughts were being held back.
"Isn't it a little early to poison him?" the woman said, her tone as dry as overcooked turkey. "You just got here and you're already trying to kill him for his money?"