Harem System: Spending Money On Women For 100% Rebate! - Chapter 342 - 342: Kyle Meets Isabeau!

Kyle sat rigid in the back of the SUV, a black cloth bag cinched over his head, his hands zip-tied behind him with plastic cutting into his wrists. The world reduced to sound and motion—the rumble of the engine, the hiss of tires on asphalt, the occasional murmur of voices from the front seats in French-accented English too low to parse. He focused on the turns, committing each one to memory like a lifeline. Left out of Cleopatra’s estate gates. Straight for what felt like two minutes—maybe a mile at city speeds. Right turn, sharper, the SUV tilting slightly. Another straight stretch, longer this time, the engine’s hum steady. He counted heartbeats to gauge distance, a trick he’d absorbed from some survival documentary months ago when the rebate system first gifted him perfect recall.

But even as he mapped the route in his mind—left again, then a gradual curve suggesting a highway on-ramp—Kyle knew it was futile. If Isabeau’s people decided to put a bullet in his skull, no amount of memorized turns would save him. He didn’t have immortality, no cheat code for resurrection. The rebate system made him rich, gave him skills, turned losses into gains—but it couldn’t stop lead tearing through his brain. One trigger pull, and Kyle was done. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a cold stone pressing down with each bump in the road.

The SUV decelerated after what felt like twenty minutes—highway exit, maybe, the turn gradual and smooth. More stop-and-go now, traffic lights or intersections. Kyle’s breathing slowed, forced calm through his nose. Panic was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He ran simulations: best case, Isabeau wanted intel, a negotiation. Worst case, execution in a soundproof room, body dumped where it’d never surface. The middle ground—torture for information—loomed most likely. His jaw tightened. He’d have to sell the Viktor angle hard, make himself indispensable but this play might not work because Isabeau had done herself in with this move even if he didn’t know she was the mole.

Finally, the SUV stopped, engine cutting to silence. Doors opened with hollow clunks. Muffled voices surrounded the vehicle—multiple people, footsteps on pavement, the scrape of boots. Kyle tensed, expecting rough hands to yank him out, but when they came, the grip on his biceps was surprisingly gentle. Firm enough to guide, not brutal.

“Easy now,” a voice said in accented English, almost apologetic. He was lifted to his feet, steadied when he swayed from sitting cramped. Interesting. Not the treatment of a dead man walking. More like… a guest under duress.

They led him forward, shoes clicking on what sounded like tile or polished concrete. The air shifted—cooler, recycled, the faint hum of HVAC systems. Indoors. A building, not some warehouse kill floor. The hand on his arm steered him left, then through a doorway; he heard the soft whoosh of a door closing behind him, sealing off the outside world. The bag stayed on, his pulse thudding in his ears. Then, without warning, it was yanked off.

Kyle blinked hard against the sudden flood of light—fluorescent overhead, harsh and clinical. He stood in what looked like the back office of a corporate suite: neat desk against one wall, filing cabinets, a leather couch to the side. No windows, but the walls were painted a soothing cream, the floor immaculate hardwood that gleamed under the lights. Fresh cleaning smell—lemon and bleach—hung in the air. She’d prepped this space. Meticulously. For him.

The man who’d pulled the bag off stepped back, hands raised in a placating gesture. Mid-forties, buzz cut, the build of ex-military gone soft at the edges.

“Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Kyle,” he said, his tone practiced, smooth.

“We’re just following protocol. You’re not a captive here—this is for everyone’s safety. Madame will be with you shortly.” He gestured to a chair facing the desk.

“Please, sit.”

Kyle didn’t move, testing the waters. His wrists were still bound, though the zip-tie was loose enough not to cut circulation—deliberate restraint, not cruelty.

“Protocol, huh?” he said flatly, voice steady despite the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins.

“Funny protocol, bagging a guy’s head and hauling him across town.”

The man’s expression didn’t shift, professionally blank. “Madame’s orders. She values discretion.” He nodded once more toward the chair, then retreated to the door, stationing himself there like a silent sentinel.

Kyle exhaled slowly and moved to the chair, lowering himself into it. The leather creaked under his weight. He scanned the room with deliberate care—no cameras visible, but that meant nothing. The desk was clear except for a sleek laptop, closed. Filing cabinets locked. The couch positioned as if for casual meetings, not interrogations. This wasn’t a torture chamber; it was a stage. Isabeau wanted to talk, not terrorize. At least, not yet. The restraints were theater, a reminder of who held power while maintaining plausible civility. Kyle filed it away: she’s trying to be on my good side. Smart. Manipulative.

He couldn’t move freely, but his mind raced free. If she wanted him dead, he’d be dead already—Cleopatra would’ve handed him over in a body bag, not gift-wrapped with apologies. No, Isabeau needed something. Information, probably. Confirmation that he wasn’t about to blow her cover to Marcello. Or maybe she wanted to turn him, use him as a double agent. Either way, Kyle had leverage if he played it right. The Viktor card sat ready in his pocket, metaphorically speaking.

The door creaked open again, and the air shifted—something intoxicating wafted in, rich and floral with undertones of bergamot and vanilla. Exotic, expensive, the kind of perfume that announced wealth before its wearer even appeared. Kyle’s nostrils flared, catching it, and he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. He turned his head toward the scent, anticipation sparking despite the danger.

“You must be Isabeau,” he said, his voice calm, almost playful, as his eyes locked onto the woman stepping through the doorway.

She was stunning. Not in the raw, predatory way Cleopatra commanded attention, but with a polished elegance that screamed European refinement. Tall—maybe five-nine in heels that clicked softly on the hardwood—she moved with the grace of someone born into power, not just wielding it. Her dark hair was swept into a sleek chignon, a few artful strands framing a face that could’ve graced a Parisian runway: sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a muted rose, eyes like dark honey that assessed him with cool calculation. She wore a tailored navy suit, the blazer cinched at the waist to accentuate her figure—flat-chested, as Kyle vaguely recalled from some briefing, but she carried herself with such poise that it didn’t matter. Sex appeal radiated off her in waves, subtle but undeniable, the kind that came from confidence and control.

Kyle kept his expression neutral, the smirk fading into something more guarded. What did he expect from a European power player? She was another Cleopatra, potentially—beautiful, dangerous, wielding charm like a weapon. He had to stay composed, not let her allure cloud his judgment. The fact that she’d contacted Cleopatra directly, coordinated this whole snatch, screamed alliance. Long-standing, probably. They had history. He could use it.

Isabeau’s gaze swept over him—lingering just a second too long on his bound wrists, then meeting his eyes—before she crossed to the desk, settling into the chair behind it with practiced ease. She didn’t speak immediately, letting the silence stretch, a power play. Kyle waited, refusing to squirm. Finally, she folded her hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly, her voice smooth as silk.

“You must know why you’re here,” she said. No preamble, no pleasantries. Straight to the point. Kyle appreciated that—wasted time benefited no one.

He held her gaze, unflinching. “I do,” he replied, his tone equally direct. “It’s because I know who the mole is.”