My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 221 - 221: The Ashfords Pressure on Harold

Harold Maxton sat in his library, nursing a whiskey that wasn’t helping his mood and a phone call that was actively making it worse.

The leather chair creaked as he shifted—the same chair he’d sat in for fifteen years, behind the same mahogany desk, in the same room where generations of Maxton men had conducted business, broken rivals, and pretended they were kings of their little Paradise empire.

Kings.

More like middle managers with good PR and very forgiving wives.

The only thing different was the monitor.

Melissa had dropped the old one, she’d said. Clumsy accident. Had to buy a replacement.

Harold hadn’t questioned it. Why would he? It was just a monitor. His wife was many things—cold, distant, perpetually disappointed in his existence—but she wasn’t usually clumsy.

He didn’t know that, his wife had been bent over this very desk, screaming into the polished mahogany while their charity-case nephew fucked her senseless from behind.

Didn’t know she’d knocked the monitor off with a flailing hand mid-orgasm—apparently getting properly dicked down for the first time in a decade did interesting things to motor control.

Didn’t know that every time he sat in this chair, he was sitting exactly where Phei had sat afterward, catching his breath, while Melissa knelt between his legs and cleaned his cock with her tongue like it was the last wafer at communion.

The same chair.

The same desk.

Harold’s whiskey glass was probably sitting in a faint, sticky ring of dried pussy juice and he’d never know.

Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

Cuckolded bliss, but bliss nonetheless. The kind of bliss that comes with a side of quiet humiliation and a garnish of someone else’s cum.

“I’ve done everything you asked!”

Harold barked into the phone, patience fraying like cheap rope—which, coincidentally, was also what his marriage was held together by these days. “The letter is written. The compensation is arranged. What more do you want from me?”

The voice on the other end was female. Cultured. Cold in that way old-money women perfected—like they were doing you a favor by deigning to speak to you at all. Like their vaginas dispensed liquid gold and their opinions were handed down from God himself on stone tablets.

“We want it delivered personally. Tomorrow. No more delays.”

“Personally? For an apology letter? Over a goddamn ice sculpture?” Harold laughed—incredulous, borderline hysterical, the laugh of a man who’d long ago stopped understanding the rules of the game everyone else seemed to be playing. “What are we, children? It was a party incident. These things happen. The boy didn’t even—”

“The boy damaged Ashford property and embarrassed our family at our own gala. The compensation comes from his pocket, not yours. Or at the very least, you lend him the funds. Those are the terms.”

“Your terms are ridiculous. Two weeks ago, you didn’t give a damn about any of this. Now suddenly it’s urgent? Suddenly it requires personal delivery and specific financial arrangements?”

Silence on the line.

The silence that made lesser men’s testicles retreat into their body cavities.

Harold’s were already there. Had been for years. Melissa hadn’t seen them since the Clinton administration—probably because she was too busy admiring someone else’s.

Then, softer, more dangerous: “Are you refusing, Harold Maxton?”

He wasn’t stupid enough to refuse the Ashfords.

Nobody was.

The Ashfords didn’t just have money—they had power. The kind of power that made governments nervous and corporations compliant. The kind of power that could end a family’s social standing with a single raised eyebrow and a polite phone call to the right people.

“No,” he ground out. “God—yes, fine. I’ll send them tomorrow. The letter, the compensation, all of it. Personally delivered. Are we done?”

“We’re done when I say we’re done.”

“We’re done NOW.” Harold’s fist slammed the desk—rattling the new monitor, making his whiskey slosh, accomplishing absolutely nothing except making him feel marginally more masculine for half a second before the shame crept back in.

“I’ve done whatever you told me. Whatever you creeps are after from this arrangement, it’s not on my hands. You hear me? NOT on my hands.”

He slammed the phone down hard enough to crack the receiver.

Very impressive.

Very powerful.

The Ashford woman had probably already forgotten he existed by the time the call ended. Probably already moved on to ruining someone else’s evening while sipping something far more expensive than his mid-shelf Scotch.

Harold sat there breathing heavily, staring at nothing, a middle-aged man having a tantrum in a library that smelled faintly of leather, old books, and—now that he thought about it—his nephew’s sexual conquests.

“Fucking Ashfords.”

The word came out like poison. Like a curse. Like the impotent rage of a man who’d spent his whole life being a big fish in a small pond, only to suddenly remember the ocean existed and it was full of sharks that considered him a light snack.

What was their deal? Just two weeks ago they’d been perfectly cordial about the whole gala incident—boys will be boys, no harm done, these things happen at parties, ha ha ha isn’t it amusing when the help causes problems.

Harold had already instructed Phei to write the apology letter as a formality, and that should have been the end of it.

He did not like favors.

But then the calls started a week ago.

Demands for a formal, handwritten apology. Demands for compensation—not from the Maxton accounts, but specifically from Phei’s own funds. Demands that Harold either lend the boy the money or ensure he paid it himself.

It made no sense.

The Ashfords didn’t need money. They had more money than God and significantly better investment portfolios. They could buy and sell the Maxtons three times over if they wanted, then use the change to wallpaper a medium-sized yacht.

So why this insistence on Phei paying personally?

Why the specific requirement for him to deliver everything in person?

Why did it feel less like seeking compensation and more like… ordering delivery?

Harold drained his whiskey and reached for the bottle.

Whatever game the Ashfords were playing, he wanted no part of it.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice.

He never did.

That was rather the point of being Harold Maxton lately, wasn’t it? The powerful legacy’s favorite punchline, delivered with impeccable timing and zero mercy.

****

On the other side of the city, in an estate so obscenely grand it made the Maxton mansion look like a particularly ambitious garden shed someone had slapped a “For Sale” sign on and then forgotten about, a woman lowered her phone with a soft, final click.

She stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of her private study, back turned to the room, gazing down at the manicured gardens that stretched toward the horizon like a green sea someone had ironed flat just for her.

Every blade of grass knew its place. Every rosebush had been threatened into perfect submission.

Her silhouette was lethal elegance: tall, poised, the kind of mature beauty that came from exceptional genetics, ruthless self-care, and enough money to make Father Time her personal bitch. He didn’t just stop at her door—he knelt, apologized for showing up at all, and left quietly through the servants’ entrance.

She wore a charcoal silk blouse that probably cost more than Harold Maxton’s entire quarterly liquor budget, paired with trousers tailored so precisely they looked painted on.

No visible jewelry except the thin platinum wedding band a relic more decorative than functional these days and emerald studs that caught the dying light like tiny green daggers.

Her dark hair, threaded with silver that looked more like deliberate highlights than actual aging, was swept into a low chignon.

She let the silence after the call hang for exactly three heartbeats—long enough for the room to remember who was in charge.