Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation
Chapter 138: Controversial Delight

Chapter 138: Controversial Delight

Chapter 138 – Controversial Delight

Mira raised an eyebrow. "And what did you buy, exactly?"

Lux’s eyes flicked over to her again.

This time, slower.

Measured.

Predatory.

"I don’t buy," he said. "I invest."

There was a beat of silence.

No one said anything.

Then—Elyndra laughed. Quietly. Tense. "Well. Remind me not to bring you to the jewelry show. You’d tank the value."

"You’d be surprised what I raise in value," Lux said, gaze dipping for half a breath before returning to her eyes.

Elyndra flushed.

Hard.

Rava’s lips twitched like she wanted to murder him for fun.

Mira bit the inside of her cheek.

Fiera crossed her legs in a different direction, clearly trying to recalibrate whatever the hell she was feeling in her chest.

The lights on stage shifted again. Another artifact rose.

The crowd leaned forward.

But Lux?

He leaned back.

Glass half-full.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes a little too sharp for someone still pretending to be a tourist.

Because no one in that room—not Fiera, not Mira, not Elyndra—had realized the simple truth yet.

Lux wasn’t here to bid.

He was the thing being bid on.

And the room was finally starting to realize it.

The whispers started like static in silk—small, sharp, and multiplying fast. One rich sigh from the duchess row, a curious laugh from a masked noble across the hall. Then came the sideways glances. Then full-on stares.

Someone coughed.

Another cleared their throat.

And suddenly?

Eyes.

Dozens of them.

On him.

From all corners of the darkened hall. Soft gazes, hard glares. Appraisal. Hunger. Confusion. Disgust. Curiosity.

The whole stupid elite buffet of emotion.

Lux didn’t even blink.

But inside—

[System Notification: Public Interest Surge Detected.]

[Now tracking 62 active emotional pings. Updating profile...]

[Duke Albrecht: Mild hostility. Threat Level: Poodle. Reason: Your existence irritates him.]

[Duchess Merelain: Increasing interest. Potential Courting Intent. Status: Recently Divorced.]

[Heir to House Fintrum: Financial instability detected. Planning to "pitch a startup" to you. Aka scam you.]

[Lord Cendric of South Quarters: Investor-Class. Attempting to trace your origins via his assistant.]

[Lady Vielle: Whispered "He’s probably some kind of playboy." Half-correct.]

[Multiple untagged nobles: Gossip intensity rising. Topic: You.]

[System Alert: Reputation is now ’Controversial Delight.’]

Lux huffed through his nose and took another sip of his drink, bourbon laced with cherry bitters and expensive boredom.

His smirk curled slowly.

’Oh yeah,’ he thought, ’talk about me more.’

He didn’t care.

Okay—he knew.

He just didn’t care.

Because this was exactly what happened when you showed up at a cursed couture runway, twirled a designer on stage like she was yours, then sat between a kraken heiress, a dragon billionairess, a high elf mogul, and a nine-tailed fashion queen like it was just another Tuesday.

This?

Was the tax.

’You raise your head too high—some will want to kiss it. Some will want to chop it off.’

"Whatever," Lux muttered under his breath, swirling his glass. The ice clinked softly. His eyes glimmered like someone watching his own fire spread through a forest.

Mira turned toward him with that same calm, layered gaze she always wore when she was about to say something with five meanings.

"You’re not even bidding?" she asked, voice smooth as a stock report dipped in honey.

Lux tilted his head toward her. "Not tonight."

Mira’s gaze flicked to the stage, then back to him. "Some of these items are priced under their actual worth. You could flip them. Gain favors. Secure leverage."

Lux glanced at her.

Then he saw it—the faintest flicker in her pupils. That glint. She could see it. Not as clearly as him, maybe, but enough. Enough to understand rarity. To taste the value beneath the glamours. And she wanted to know if he could see it too.

He leaned just a little closer.

"I could," he said, voice low. "But I don’t need to."

He raised his glass.

Sipped again.

Mira raised an eyebrow. "Too rich to care?"

Lux gave her the laziest smirk. "Too self-sufficient to pretend I’m here for the resale market."

And that was the truth. Money wasn’t a problem. It was a resource—and one he printed himself when necessary.

He didn’t need to flip relics.

He didn’t need to impress investors.

He just needed himself.

Mira leaned back, trying not to show how that answer hit. But the way she crossed her legs tighter said enough.

The auction continued. Another relic. Another round of clapping.

An ancient music box that once made a cursed family go mad. Starting bid: $2.7 million. Someone actually offered $4.2 within seconds.

Lux almost yawned.

The lights above flickered briefly in ambiance. The scent of rose oil and enchanted perfume clogged the room. Velvet seat cushions grew warm beneath him, plush but not breathable. The voices in the room ebbed and flowed like a concert of noble hummingbirds.

And his brain?

Flatlining.

A quarter hour passed. Maybe more. His glass was half-empty.

The auction had transitioned into bidding for the elven blade. Clearly reforged. Clearly dulled. Worth maybe $200K.

Sold for $1.1M.

’Idiots.’

Lux set his glass down and stared at the stage.

Then stared at his soul.

Then stared at Rava.

She was watching the auction with practiced patience, her fingers resting delicately near a pearl-encrusted clutch. Calm. Cool. Kraken.

Lux leaned toward her, lowering his voice until it curled right behind her ear.

"Wanna bang?" he whispered.

Rava’s eye twitched.

He smirked.

"Here. Now," he added, deadpan. "I’m bored."

Her tentacle flicked under the table—just one. A gentle warning.

"We can’t do that," she whispered.

"Why not?" he whispered back.

"There are too many people and two duchesses already drooling."

"You didn’t say no.

"I said we can’t."

"Not the same."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do I need to restrain you again?"

"Please. I can be a dom and sub."

Rava bit back a grin, shifting slightly, the scent of ocean salt and midnight ink brushing against his nose. He leaned back, satisfied with himself. She shook her head once, but yeah—she was smiling.

Just a little.

Fiera shot them both a look. Her tails flicked.

"I swear," she said under her breath, "if you two start something during my show’s after-event, I’ll design a muzzle into next year’s theme."