My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 503: The Tower: To Ashford Madam

Chapter 503: The Tower: To Ashford Madam

It was the sort of building architects designed after being given an unlimited budget and what was probably an untreated god complex.

Twin spires climbed from a shared obsidian base, long curved blades of glass and steel that looked less constructed than summoned.

Light clung to them strangely.

Moonlight, city glow, the cold cyan strips sunk into the edges—everything reflected and slid and pulsed until the whole structure seemed faintly alive, like it was breathing in money and exhaling intimidation.

Infinity pools glimmered on suspended terraces, turquoise and perfectly still, because naturally a building like this needed decorative water features hanging in the air several hundred feet above ground just to make gravity feel poor.

Palm trees lined the lower levels with the expensive confidence of landscaping that had never once feared drought.

Bridges arced between the towers high overhead, impossible and elegant and offensively casual, as if engineering miracles were simply what happened when rich people got bored and started sketching.¹

And despite there being two towers, everyone called it Tower.

Singular.

Phei stood on the pavement and looked up at the twin spires.

Why was it called Tower and not Towers?

No one knew or cared.

Maybe there was a board memo somewhere. Maybe the naming committee had died before finishing the plural, perhaps wealth simply reached a point where grammar no longer applied.

He handed the keys to the valet and stepped out fully into the evening.

Paradise warmth settled over his skin like silk with a criminal record.

He took one last look up at the glowing blades before heading toward the entrance.

He had dressed simply.

Which, on a man built like Phei, was its own form of violence.

A black turtleneck sat clean beneath a grey zip-front jacket which he did not zip, relaxed in cut but precise where it mattered, the fabric falling across his frame with the kind of ease money liked to brag about quietly.

Black wide-leg trousers moved with him instead of against him, and polished black boots caught the ambient light with each step.

A dark watch rested on his left wrist, its face flashing with faint cyan reflections from the building’s lower ledges. Understated. Clean—nothing begging to be noticed, everything impossible to ignore.

In his right hand, he carried something.

The guards saw him coming.

Two men at the entrance, both wearing earpieces, dark suits, and that particular brand of expensive stillness security professionals cultivated when their job required them to appear harmless right up until the moment they were absolutely not.

One stepped forward with perfect courtesy, head dipping just enough to imply respect without actually surrendering authority.

“Good evening, sir. How may we assist you?”

Technically, the building was closed to non-essential visitors.

Which was a polite way of saying the ordinary humans had gone home hours ago. The executives were gone.

The assistants were gone.

The daylight army of polished ambition had already emptied out, leaving only the night shift, the rotating security details, and the sort of people who considered midnight an acceptable time to begin revising strategic acquisition documents.

Phei reached into his jacket.

Pulled out the card.

Held it up.

The guards’ faces remained professionally neutral. But something shifted behind their eyes. Recognition. Immediate and absolute.

The tiny flicker of men who had been briefed very carefully on a very short list of objects that meant do not ask questions unless you enjoy unemployment.

The card he took from the Ashford Madam’s desk.

She had, to be fair, attempted to take it back.

She had failed.

The card granted full access to nearly the entire building. Floor after floor. Corridor after corridor. Office after office. Only the truly restricted areas remained closed, the sort that required board approval, blood sacrifice, or both.

Everything else was open.

Including the place he wanted.

Her office.

The guards stepped aside.

The doors opened.

And Phei walked into Ashford Tower carrying something in his hand and several extremely questionable intentions in his chest.

The lobby swallowed him whole.

It was vast and hushed and immaculate in that way only very expensive spaces managed, where silence itself seemed curated. Marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting polished enough to make poverty feel underdressed.

A waterfall wall murmured softly in the distance, which was apparently the approved soundtrack for obscene wealth after business hours.

No music.

Just the faint click of his boots, the low whisper of climate control, and the subtle ozone scent of air filtration systems that probably cost more per month than most families earned in a year.

He didn’t look around.

He already knew where he was going.

The private elevator waited at the far end of the lobby. No buttons or call panel but a discreet black scanner built into the wall, because nothing said power quite like forcing architecture to pretend it could read your intentions.

He raised the card.

The doors opened immediately.

Inside, everything was restrained and immaculate. Mirror-polished walls. Soft amber lighting. A single bench upholstered in dark leather so expensive it probably had opinions.

The elevator simply knew where its passengers were supposed to go, which was either impressive design or the beginning of a dystopian novel.

He stepped inside.

The doors closed.

The ascent was smooth enough to feel unnatural, fast enough to make the body question its own loyalty to gravity.

Phei leaned back against the wall and watched his reflection—calm face, steady eyes, shoulders loose, the thing in his hand still resting by his side as if it weighed nothing at all.

He didn’t fidget.

That part had already happened too many times, usually alone, usually late, usually in the sort of exhausted silence where every possible version of a conversation starts to sound stupid halfway through.

He had run the scene over and over in his head. Every opening line. Every tonal variation. Every version of her refusal.

And every time, he came back to the same conclusion.

He wasn’t here to charm her.

He wasn’t here to seduce her.

He was here to earn her.

The elevator slowed.

A soft chime broke the silence, so quiet it barely counted as sound.

Then the doors opened onto the sixty-fifth floor.

Her floor.

Phei stepped out into a corridor long and dim and silent enough to make churches seem chatty. Black marble stretched beneath his boots.

Dark wood paneling drank the light from the walls.

There was no receptionist, no assistant, no decorative human barrier between him and the woman at the end of the hall—only a pair of double doors made of ebony, carved with geometric lines so precise they looked like circuitry, constellations, or the sort of ancient symbol people accidentally summoned things with.

He walked toward them slowly.

And the thing in his hand felt heavier now.

Not because it had changed.

Because he was finally close enough to use it.