My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 240 - 240: Derek-Phei Treaty!

Then the horror itself, raw and visceral, crashing over him like ice water and broken glass—the kind of horror that came from realizing your sister had chosen the family punching bag over you, and he’d apparently punched very well, claiming what you’d coveted in silence for years, turning your every forbidden dream into his casual reality.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Nothing came out—like his brain had short-circuited and was frantically trying to reboot but kept getting error messages about incest-adjacent betrayal, the kind that left you hard and heartbroken in equal measure, forever ruined by the sight of her bliss in another’s arms.

The coffee cup in Danton’s hand cracked. Actually cracked—ceramic fracturing under his death-grip, hot liquid seeping over his knuckles unnoticed—because pain was apparently less important than processing the fact that his twin was now part of the charity case’s harem.

“What,” he breathed, voice strangled, “the fuck.”

Delilah heard him.

Looked up.

And smiled.

Not apologetic. Not embarrassed. Not even slightly ashamed.

Triumphant. The smile of a girl who’d spent eighteen years in her twin’s shadow—and who had finally, gloriously, chosen a side.

“Morning, brother,” she said, sweet as poisoned honey. “Sleep well?”

Danton’s face went purple.

But before he could explode—

The Unholy Trinity demanded attention.

Brett, Anderson, and Kyle stood clustered near the tech section entrance like a united front, except there was nothing united about them anymore.

The cracks were showing—hairline fractures in a friendship built on mutual cruelty and shared secrets, and now those secrets were about to spill across Ashford like blood from an open wound—messy, permanent, and impossible to clean up with daddy’s money.

Kyle kept shooting nervous glances at his companions, sensing something had shifted but too thick to understand what.

Poor stupid Kyle, who’d always been the follower, the backup muscle, the one who laughed at jokes he didn’t understand because Brett expected him to—the human equivalent of a golden retriever with a trust fund and a mean streak.

Brett’s jaw was locked in barely-contained rage, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t trust them not to break something—or someone.

His eyes kept scanning the room, like searching for threats, answers, for the source of the rumours that had been spreading through Ashford like wildfire for the past week. He looked dangerous. Cornered.

The kind of dangerous that came from a lifetime of never facing consequences and suddenly realising they might actually apply to you—and that the consequence had purple eyes and a smile that promised pain.

And Anderson—pretty, privileged Anderson with his carefully curated image and his politician father and his future all mapped out in gold-plated certainty—looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Dark circles carved hollows under his eyes. His hands trembled even when he shoved them in his blazer pockets. The perfect hair was slightly mussed. The confident smile was nowhere to be found.

Anderson knew.

Anderson understood exactly what was coming, even if Brett was still in denial—swimming in that sweet Egyptian river with the crocodiles.

They knew the rumours were about to become permanent. The moment Renee published what she had—the club incident, the cover-ups, the things even their families’ money hadn’t been able to completely erase—their carefully constructed reputations would collapse like houses of cards in a hurricane—or like their egos when faced with actual accountability.

And there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

Phei’s smile sharpened.

Beautiful.

But the real entertainment stood apart from everyone.

Derek.

Poor, stupid, predictable Derek—sporting a black eye swollen half-shut, split lip scabbed over poorly, bruised ribs obvious from the way he held himself. Brett and Anderson’s handiwork after discovering he was the “leak”—because nothing says “friendship” like beating the shit out of the guy who sold you out.

And yet the idiot was grinning.

That stupid, oblivious, utterly misplaced grin of a man who thought he’d backed the winning horse.

Who thought the beating was just a temporary setback before his grand vindication. Who thought Phei Maxton—the boy he’d spent a decade treating like garbage—was actually going to ride in on a white horse and save his pathetic arse.

The delusion is almost impressive when I think about it.

Phei would’ve felt sorry for him if Derek hadn’t spent ten years making his life a living hell. If Derek hadn’t laughed when Brett shoved him into lockers. If Derek hadn’t filmed half the humiliations and shared them in group chats. If Derek hadn’t been the one to hold Phei down while the others took turns.

Sympathy is for people who deserved it.

Derek had never deserved anything good in his miserable life, and Phei was about to make sure he never got it.

Yesterday’s text conversation played in Phei’s head like a comedy reel—the kind where the punchline was a slow, delicious betrayal.

Derek: Please. Renee’s deadline is today. Brett and Anderson are going to destroy me. You said you could help.

Phei: I’ll help you. Meet me tomorrow. I’ll hand everything over in person.

Derek: Tomorrow??? The deadline is TODAY.

Phei: I’ll talk to Renee. She’ll give you an extension.

Derek: You know Renee???

Phei: I know everyone, Derek. Trust me.

Phei had agreed to help Derek, three minutes exactly after beating his hired muscles.

And Derek had. Just like that. Trusted. After ten years of bullying Phei, after a decade of casual cruelty—he’d looked at the boy he’d tormented and thought: Yes, this person definitely has my best interests at heart.

A fool like Derek. He mused.

Hadn’t asked why Phei couldn’t just send the files electronically—would’ve taken thirty seconds, tops. Hadn’t questioned why Phei would waste time “convincing” Renee when a simple attachment to an email would accomplish the same thing.

Hadn’t wondered how Phei knew Renee in the first place, or what their relationship was, or why Phei was so eager to play middleman in a transaction that benefited him exactly zero percent.

The holes in Phei’s story were large enough to drive a lorry through sideways—with room left over for a marching band playing “Hail to the Chief Delusion.”

Derek had walked right past them with a grateful smile and a thank you.

A thank you. From the boy who’d once pissed on Phei’s backpack—the same boy who’d laughed hardest when the stench followed Phei for hours those days after they’d done it each day for two weeks, forcing Phei to carry it around 24/7 at school.

Some people, Phei thought, are simply born to be pawns. Stupid, grateful pawns who think the hand feeding them poison is just being kind.

One can count on the stupid!

That’s why he’d targeted Renne to Derek first.

Now Derek caught his eye across the room and actually nodded—conspiratorial, like they were partners instead of predator and prey. Like they were friends. Like ten years of cruelty had been erased by a single text conversation and a promise from a boy Derek had never once treated like a human being.

Phei nodded back.

Kept smiling.

And thought about how satisfying it would be to watch that grin crumble when Derek finally realised the truth: the files were already in Renee’s hands. Had been for days. The “extension” Phei had promised to negotiate?

Never happened. Never needed to happen. Because Derek was never getting saved—he was getting sacrificed on a wooden stake.

Derek was going to burn right alongside Brett and Anderson, because Phei had made the files he gave her included everyone. Every enabler. Every accomplice. Every loyal attack dog who’d followed orders without questioning where those orders led.

Poetic. Almost biblical. An eye for an eye!

Brett’s eyes found his across the room.

For a long moment, something passed between them— maybe the dawning, horrible understanding that the charity case they’d tormented for a decade was somehow at the centre of their impending destruction? That the boy they’d kicked and mocked and treated like less than nothing had been quietly, patiently, methodically building the weapon that would end them.

Brett’s eyes widened slightly.

Not much. Just enough.

Just enough to tell Phei that Brett was finally, finally starting to understand.

Phei held the gaze. Didn’t blink. Let Brett see exactly what was behind those violet eyes now—not fear, not submission, not the desperate survival instinct of a cornered animal.

Just cold, patient, absolute certainty.

I’m going to destroy you. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Brett looked away first.

Good boy.

DING-DONG-DING.

The bell shattered everything like a hammer through stained glass—or through the fragile egos of boys who’d never been told no.

“Attention all students. Report to the main auditorium immediately. Assembly. Attendance is mandatory.”

He smiled—that slow, satisfied smile of a man watching all his dominoes line up—

Then he offered his arm to Delilah—who took it with a blush and a smile that did something complicated to his chest—and began walking toward the auditorium.

Sierra fell into step on his left. Maddie on his right, still limping from this morning, still wearing that satisfied cat-who-got-the-cream expression that made everyone who saw her wonder exactly what had happened to make Madison Whitmore walk like her legs had forgotten their job—and were perfectly happy about it.

His women.

Behind them, Brett and Anderson followed.

Walking toward what would start their execution.

And they didn’t even know it yet.