Ch. 66 – The Knock at Noon

The next morning dawned with a heavy, oppressive sunlight that bled through the blinds, casting long, cage-like shadows across the hardwood floors.

Rhys spent the entire morning compulsively cleaning. In truth, he had already finished every domestic task that could possibly be done—the countertops were scrubbed to a sterile shine, the carpets were thoroughly vacuumed, and the laundry was folded with military precision. But his mind was a storm of nervous, agitated energy, so he desperately sought out side projects just to keep his hands moving. He reorganized the tool shed, scrubbed the grout in the guest bathroom, and polished the decorative brass until his knuckles ached. Anything to keep the lingering, phantom sensations of the previous night from creeping back into his thoughts.

Eventually, he forced himself to sit down at his desk to work on the logistics for his new catering business. Spread out before him were draft menus, cost spreadsheets, and rough designs for promotional flyers.

How the hell am I supposed to plan a high-end special launch event in less than two weeks? Rhys thought, rubbing his temples as a headache bloomed behind his eyes.

He spent over an hour mulling over venue ideas, aggressively searching online until he stumbled upon a listing on Hoondle. It was a breathtaking estate—an open-air pavilion built on a cliffside, boasting pristine white pillars and a panoramic view overlooking the vast ocean. It was majestic, sophisticated, and utterly perfect for a premiere.

Then he looked at the rental price.

Rhys let out a low, cynical whistle, instantly balking at the exorbitant digit count. He thought better of making such a wild financial gamble, opting to bookmark the webpage in his browser instead. Try as he might over the next hour, he couldn't find a single alternative that came close to matching its aesthetic without costing a fortune. Frustrated, he decided to shelve the venue search entirely and pivot back to the core menu.

As the sun crossed the meridian, a cold, familiar dread began to settle in his gut. It was about that time of day.

It could happen at any moment, Rhys thought, pacing back and forth across the rug like a caged animal. Any one of the three dangerous, predatory women haunting his neighborhood could come knocking on his front door.

Taking no chances, Rhys went on a high-alert security sweep. He personally verified that every single deadbolt was thrown and made sure every curtain and window shade was drawn completely shut.

When his sweep brought him to the kitchen, his gaze locked onto the back door. The broken glass pane was neatly swept up, but the door frame still bore the faint marks of forced entry. A sharp, uncomfortable flashback to his encounter with Dione slammed into his mind—the slick moisture, her desperate confessions, and her alien obsession with "bonding" to him.

Bleakly, Rhys remembered the ridiculous cover story he had fed Lira just hours ago, claiming a wild "coonrat" had somehow broken through the glass while digging through the trash. Lira had actually beamed at him with warm, endearing pride this morning over breakfast, giggling softly and praising him for "defending the house masterfully" from the imaginary pest. The sheer, unearned trust in her eyes had nearly brought Rhys to his knees with guilt.

He desperately couldn't wait for Lira to get back home from her League duties. He would much rather spend his entire day wrapped in the quiet, comforting thought of his wife than spend every waking second terrified that another villainous or obsessed woman was going to jump his bones in his own living room.

Yet, as the clock ticked steadily onward, something miraculous happened.

An hour passed. Then two. Then three.

Not a single shadow crossed his porch. Not Rhea, not Ariadne, and not even Dione made an appearance. The neighborhood outside remained eerily, mercifully quiet. Rhys let out a long, heavy exhale of profound relief, sinking back into his office chair. He had finally secured a rare, uncorrupted pocket of time to himself.

He tried to capitalize on the tranquility by returning to his catering spreadsheets, but as the immediate panic faded, the silence of the house began to creep into his mind.

In the quiet, dark corners of his thoughts, the one woman who consistently defied all logic and reason began to surface. He simply could not wrap his head around Vespera. She hadn't said a single word to him in days, yet she was actively pulling the strings on his best friend, stringing Marcus along like a starry-eyed puppet. She was a phantom hovering over every aspect of his life, a constant, agonizing mystery.

And worst of all—a realization that made Rhys’s stomach twist in disgust—he hated to admit that he actually missed her.

"No, I don't miss her!" Rhys blurted out loud into the empty room, the words tearing from his throat before he could stop them.

He bolted upright from his chair, pacing the room again as if he could physically outrun his own mind. He tried to reason with the dark thoughts ganging up on him, but the devil on his shoulder had brought a full entourage today.

The only reason I'm thinking about her is because I need to find a way to cut her out of my life permanently, he lied to himself.

Then the battered, tired angel on his other shoulder finally chimed in, defensive and weary: "But she isn't even in your life right now! And you don't have to bring her back into it... right?"

He knew he shouldn't. It was sheer insanity. It was throwing a lit match into a room full of gasoline.

Yet, as if possessed by a rogue impulse, Rhys reached for his phone, tapped Vespera’s contact name, and pressed call.

Ring—

The sound of the dial tone echoed in his ear, and a wave of absolute horror instantly crashed over him. Panicking, Rhys slammed his thumb down on the red button, hanging up after a single ring.

It is NOT worth it! Rhys thought sternly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Recognizing that he could not be trusted near technology while his judgment was this severely compromised, Rhys promptly threw his phone across the room. It landed with a soft, heavy thud on the plush sofa cushions. He needed to step away from it; the device was far too dangerous in his hands right now.

Seeking a distraction, Rhys walked into the living room, deciding to force himself to relax. He poured two fingers of amber liquor into a heavy glass, lowered the ambient lights, and put on a smooth, low-tempo jazz vinyl.

To anchor himself further, he even considered taking up his old creative hobby again. Years ago, before his kinetic cells burned out and before his life turned into a tangled mess of secrets, he used to paint. He had been a fairly adequate portrait artist, and his absolute favorite muse—his only true muse—had always been Lira.

But the moment he imagined holding a paintbrush, a sudden, brutal sucker punch caught him in the gut of his mind. Unbidden, his imagination began filling canvases with the voluptuous, sinful figures of the other women in his orbit. He envisioned the razor-sharp curves of Ariadne, the lush, maternal perfection of Rhea, and the intoxicating, elemental beauty of Dione.

And then, dominating the gallery of his mind, came Vespera. His imagination seemed to hunger for the memory of her body most of all—the dark, mysterious elegance, the sharp tilt of her chin, the dangerous, smoldering heat in her eyes.

Rhys raised his glass and took a massive, burning swig of the liquor, letting the alcohol wash the vivid, depraved images away from his mind. He leaned his head back against the leather armchair, closing his eyes, letting the smooth jazz drown out the noise.

Yet, as the waves of liquor and music settled, one faint, stubborn pebble of a memory remained lodged in the back of his brain. It was a fleeting, elusive detail—something he had overlooked, a piece of a puzzle he couldn't quite put his finger on. He drifted deeper into the music, trying to trace the memory back to its source...

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The sudden, sharp rapping at the front door sent Rhys’s heart leaping straight into his throat. His eyes snapped open, a heavy anchor of dread plunging into his stomach.

I can't with these ladies today, Rhys griped bitterly to himself, his hands clenching into fists as he stood up from the chair. I can't possibly be wanted this much. I can't be the ONLY man made for them!

Defeated, unenthusiastic, and bracing for a confrontation, Rhys walked down the hallway to face whichever mistress of chaos had arrived to tear his life apart next. He unlatched the deadbolt, pulled the heavy door open, and prepared to put his foot down.

He froze.

Standing on his porch was not Ariadne, not Rhea, and not Dione. It wasn't any of the local housewives who had been pining over him.

Instead, he was met with the striking, majestic sight of a beautiful Ifrit woman he had completely sidelined in the chaos of the past forty-eight hours. She stood on his threshold, her bronze skin practically radiating a subtle, ambient warmth, her expression soft, respectful, and deeply expectant.

Another housewife who wanted a piece of him.

Not just a piece, the devil on his shoulder cackled delightedly in his ear. She wants the whole damn blueprint.

Rhys stared down at Shula, feeling utterly drained, the last embers of his resistance evaporating.

Oh, yeah... I guess I literally AM the only one made for her, Rhys thought, a wave of profound defeat washing over him.

In an instant, the memory returned with crystal clarity: Shula’s absurd, boundary-shattering "proposition" from days ago—her desperate request for him to act as a biological donor because his unique, suppressed genetic makeup was the only compatible match capable of giving her a child.

And she hadn't come alone.

Standing right beside her on the porch was her husband, Darius—a high-ranking, powerful hero in his own right. The couple stood side by side on his doorstep, united, solemn, and ready to receive Rhys's final answer.