Harem System: Spending Money On Women For 100% Rebate! - Chapter 344 - 344: The Night Before... [FIXED!]

The guards half-carried, half-dragged Kyle down a narrow corridor, his feet stumbling beneath him as his wounded arm throbbed with each heartbeat. Blood had soaked through the hastily applied bandages, warm and sticky against his skin. They stopped at a nondescript door—plain white, no markings—and one of them punched a code into a keypad. The lock clicked open with a mechanical whir.

Inside was a room that looked more like a boutique hotel suite than a holding cell. A queen-sized bed dominated the space, dressed in crisp white linens that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. A small sitting area occupied one corner: plush armchair, side table, a reading lamp casting warm amber light. Minimalist artwork hung on the walls—abstract swirls in muted grays and blues. The hardwood floor gleamed, spotless. There was even a small en-suite bathroom visible through a half-open door, all marble and chrome.

But Kyle’s eyes went immediately to the corners of the ceiling. Two cameras, maybe three—small, black domes mounted with professional precision. One covered the bed, another the sitting area, a third angled toward the bathroom door. Isabeau wasn’t letting him out of her sight. Of course not. He was her puppet now, her living prop for tomorrow’s performance in front of Marcello and the families.

The guards deposited him onto the bed with surprising gentleness, propping pillows behind his back. One of them—the buzz-cut ex-military type from earlier—checked the bandage on his arm with practiced efficiency, tightening it until Kyle winced.

“Keep pressure on it,” the man muttered in accented English. “Someone will bring fresh dressing soon. And food.”

They left without another word, the door locking behind them with a heavy thunk that resonated in Kyle’s bones. He was alone. Trapped in a gilded cage, cameras watching his every move like mechanical eyes that never blinked.

Kyle slumped back against the pillows, exhaustion crashing over him in waves. His arm screamed with pain, a constant reminder of Isabeau’s casual brutality. How the hell had he gotten into this mess?

He patted his pockets with his good hand and, to his surprise, felt the familiar weight of his phone. They’d left it. Either Isabeau was confident he couldn’t contact anyone useful, or she wanted to monitor who he reached out to. Probably both. Kyle pulled it out, the screen lighting up with notifications—missed calls from Nakamura, a few texts from Jane asking how he was doing. Nothing from Ella.

He opened a new message to her, thumbs hovering over the keys for a moment before he typed: [[Not coming home tonight. Something came up. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.]] Then hit send.

The message delivered—one checkmark, then two. But no response. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Nothing. Kyle sighed, locking the screen. Of course she wasn’t answering. Ella had her own life, her own shit to deal with.

A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. It opened before he could respond, and a different guard—younger, clean-shaven—entered carrying a tray. The aroma hit Kyle immediately: rich, savory, making his stomach clench with sudden, desperate hunger. He hadn’t eaten since… when? This morning? Felt like a lifetime ago.

The guard set the tray on the side table and left without a word, lock clicking again. Kyle eyed the food warily. A beautifully plated filet mignon, cooked medium-rare, the meat glistening under a red wine reduction. Roasted vegetables—asparagus, baby carrots, fingerling potatoes—seasoned to perfection. A small basket of warm, crusty bread. A glass of deep red wine. It looked like something out of a Michelin-starred restaurant, not prison rations.

Poison crossed his mind first. But that made no sense—Isabeau needed him alive and coherent for tomorrow’s show trial. If she wanted him dead, she’d have put that bullet through his skull instead of his arm. Still, caution warred with hunger as he picked up the fork with his good hand.

The first bite of steak melted on his tongue, buttery and rich, flavored with herbs he couldn’t name but that sang on his palate. God, it was good. The best meal he’d eaten in… ever? The vegetables were tender, the bread still warm and soft inside its crispy crust. He devoured it all, shoveling food into his mouth like a man starved, washing it down with the wine—smooth, full-bodied, probably worth hundreds per bottle.

By the time he finished, his stomach was pleasantly full, a warmth spreading through his chest. He set the tray aside and leaned back, intending to rest his eyes for just a moment. But the warmth didn’t stop. It spread, heavy and languid, seeping into his limbs like molasses. His eyelids drooped, suddenly weighted. His vision swam at the edges, the room tilting slightly.

Drugged. The realization hit him with sluggish horror. They’d drugged the food—probably the wine, or both. Kyle tried to sit up, panic flaring, but his body wouldn’t obey. His muscles felt like wet sand, unresponsive, strength draining away with each passing second. He looked around the room, blinking hard to clear his vision, and his gaze landed on the camera in the corner.

Why? He was already cooperating, already cornered with no way out. There was no need to drug him. Unless… unless this was about control. Total, absolute control. Keeping him docile, compliant, a puppet with strings so tight he couldn’t even twitch without permission.

He tried to resist the pull of unconsciousness, gritting his teeth, forcing his eyes open. But the drug was strong—professional grade, probably something designed to knock out someone twice his size. His hand lifted weakly toward the camera, fingers trembling as he managed a sarcastic little wave before it flopped back onto the bed.

Unknown to Kyle, in a dimly lit control room down the hall, Isabeau sat watching the monitors, a faint smile playing on her lips. She’d always had a weakness for young men—pretty ones with fire in their eyes, the kind who fought back before they broke. It was a vice, one she indulged rarely but thoroughly when the opportunity arose. Cleopatra knew, of course. That’s why she’d put on such a show when Isabeau had visited her estate, letting Kyle get grabbed, knowing it would pique Isabeau’s interest. A gift, of sorts, wrapped in mutual benefit.

Tomorrow might be his last day alive, depending on how the families voted, how Marcello reacted. Why not indulge, just a little? A taste of what he’d offered, even if he hadn’t meant it as an offer.

She stood, smoothing her hands over the exquisite nightgown she’d changed into—silk the color of champagne, sheer enough to hint at the curves beneath, the neckline plunging just enough to tempt without crossing into vulgar. The hem brushed mid-thigh, barely covering what it needed to. She looked like a fantasy, and she knew it.

Isabeau made her way to Kyle’s room, the guards stepping aside without question. She entered quietly, the door whispering shut behind her.

Kyle’s eyes were half-lidded, struggling to focus as she approached. He tried to speak—probably to curse her out again—but his voice came out as little more than a slurred mumble, words barely escaping his throat. The drug had him good. She could see his body fighting it, muscles twitching with the effort to stay conscious, but it was a losing battle.

She settled into the armchair facing the bed, crossing her legs with elegant ease. A pipe—ornate, carved wood—rested in her hand, unlit but held like a prop from some old film noir. She watched him drift, his breathing evening out, eyelids finally surrendering and sliding shut. His chest rose and fell in deep, steady rhythm.

But the drug cocktail they’d given him wasn’t just a sedative. There was something else mixed in—an aphrodisiac, subtle but effective, designed to keep him aroused even in sleep. Insurance, perhaps, or just her own twisted curiosity. His body responded predictably, a visible tent forming in his pants despite his unconsciousness.

Isabeau smiled, taking in the sight. Young, handsome, dangerous in his own right but utterly helpless now. She stayed there for a while, smoking the pipe absently, watching him sleep, savoring the power.

—

Kyle woke to darkness, his head thick and foggy, mouth dry as cotton. He blinked, disoriented, trying to piece together where he was. The room. Isabeau’s safehouse. The drugged food. Memory trickled back in fragments.

But something was wrong. He wasn’t alone.

He turned his head slowly, still groggy, and his heart nearly stopped. Isabeau lay beside him on the bed, curled on her side, facing him. Her nightgown had ridden up slightly, exposing the smooth curve of her thigh. One arm was draped casually across his chest, her body pressed close like a lover after intimacy.

“What the fuck…” Kyle breathed, the words barely audible. Panic spiked through the drug-induced haze. He shifted carefully, checking himself with trembling hands. Pants still on. Zipper up. No wetness, no soreness, no evidence of… He inspected further, relief flooding him. She hadn’t touched him. Not sexually, at least. Everything was intact, untouched.

But she was cuddling him. Like they were a couple, like this was normal. Her breathing was soft and even against his shoulder, deep in sleep. The intimacy of it—uninvited, unwanted, utterly bizarre—made his skin crawl.

Kyle lay there, frozen, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. What kind of weird shit was this? Why drug him just to cuddle? Was this some power play he didn’t understand, or was Isabeau genuinely unhinged beneath the polished exterior?

He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare wake her. The cameras still watched, silent witnesses to whatever twisted game she was playing.