Urban System in America
Chapter 215 - 214: Not My Circus, Not My Monkey

Chapter 215: Chapter 214: Not My Circus, Not My Monkey

He entered what looked like a library—but not the kind where people actually read. No, this was a flex library. Two stories tall with hand-carved woodwork and spiral staircases that seemed specifically designed for dramatic entrances. The kind of place where people casually ’lose’ million-dollar first editions while sipping cognac older than most nations.

Everywhere he turned, something new caught his eye—ceiling frescos with brushstrokes so delicate they probably required therapy after being painted, antique vases that could pay off a national debt, and rugs so soft he felt like apologizing every time he stepped on them.

He passed through a room that seemed dedicated entirely to cigars and whisky. Another room had walls lined with shelves—each filled not with books, but collectible watches ticking in eerie synchronization like the heartbeat of generational wealth.

Next came the formal dining room, which could seat over a hundred guests. The table stretched so long it looked like it had its own zip code, and required GPS to find your seat. Rex half-expected to see carrier pigeons relaying messages from one end to the other.

Then, like stumbling into Gatsby’s secret lair, he found the Art Deco-style bar and billiards room. The lighting had that vintage Hollywood glow, and he could practically hear jazz playing even before the speakers kicked in. It looked like it had been ripped straight from a 1920s noir film, complete with liquor older than the Great Depression and lighting that whispered secrets.

There were more liquor bottles displayed than a five-star hotel minibar, and at least three pool tables made of what he could only assume was unicorn bone—or something equally extravagant.

Rex leaned against the velvet-lined bar, absorbing every absurd detail, from the gold-threaded drapes to the fresco of a Roman feast on the ceiling.

As Rex continued his gleefully judgmental tour, he knew one thing for sure: this mansion wasn’t built for living—it was built for flexing.

Still, he wasn’t done exploring. If the rest of the mansion was anything like this, then he was determined to experience it all—not just out of curiosity, but also so he could one day describe it to broke friends and say, "Ah yes, the western sunroom had slightly better acoustics than the platinum-tiled conservatory."

These mansions were less about functionality and more about bragging rights, anyway. And honestly, Rex thought, if I ever get truly filthy rich, I’m definitely getting myself a few broke friends—just so I can drag them around places like this and say things like, "Oh, you poor soul, you’ve never heard your own voice echo through seven types of marble?""

And with that noble cause in mind, he pushed open the next door—ready to find out whether there were other secrets hidden in there.

As Rex opened the next ornate double door, he stepped into a world clearly not meant for public consumption. The lighting was dim and moody, like the room itself had secrets it didn’t want to share. The air was thick with whispers and perfume—the kind that cost more than rent and had names like "Desire" or "Regret #5."

He hadn’t even taken a full step when movement caught his eye. Two figures. No, two very passionate figures. Mid-liplock. Passionate. Sloppy. So intense it looked like one of them was trying to inhale the other’s face—mouths fused together with a hunger that screamed scandal. One of them moaned softly into the other’s lips, hands roaming with an intimacy that made the air feel ten degrees warmer.

One had their fingers tangled in the other’s hair, gripping tightly, tugging their head back to expose a neck that was being nibbled on like forbidden fruit. The other’s hand had slipped fully inside the shirt, trailing along bare skin in slow, practiced strokes.

Hips ground together with just enough friction to make Rex’s eyebrows raise involuntarily. A single heel dangled precariously from a foot mid-air, toes curling, while the other leg was wrapped loosely around a thigh.

If a photographer had walked in behind Rex, the tabloids would’ve exploded before the flash even went off.

He blinked.

They blinked.

All three of them stood in awkward silence, the kind that feels like it’s lasting a decade, with just the soft hum of a distant chandelier to keep them company.

Rex tilted his head slightly. And that’s when it hit him—He recognized the couple. He’d literally seen them both on the front page of a gossip rag this morning. And not together, mind you. And they weren’t just random celebrities; they were the golden couples of the season, each half of a separate public fairytale.

Just this morning, he’d seen their faces plastered across magazine covers and morning show interviews. One had tearfully talked about building trust with their soulmate; the other had just posted a video making heart-shaped pancakes with their "forever love."

And yet here they were—entangled, breathless, swapping spit like it was a competitive sport. It was like walking in on Cinderella tongue-wrestling Darth Vader at Comic-Con—confusing, iconic, and definitely not canon. Scandalous didn’t even begin to cover it.

"Oh," Rex said, as if he’d just stumbled into someone doing their taxes in the dark.

The pair flew apart so fast you’d think someone had shouted, "Paparazzi!" One tripped over a chaise lounge, the other somehow managed to zip their jacket and button a shirt at the same time. It was like watching two toddlers try to lie after raiding the cookie jar, only this jar was full of scandal.

Rex gave them a polite nod, like a gentleman catching a friend cheating at poker, and before they could say anything.

"Didn’t see anything," he said, smooth as a jazz solo, and stepped back out, gently closing the door like he was tucking in a scandal for the night or like watching two politicians get caught mid-kiss at a press conference—horrified, hyperventilating, and trying to pretend they were just whispering about climate change.

Guilty, flushed, and fumbling with such frantic energy you’d think someone had pressed the panic button on a telenovela set. One tried to play it cool by fixing their hair, the other smiled like a toddler denying they ate the entire cake—while covered in frosting.

And before they could react or say anything, Rex gave a dignified nod, as if he’d just walked in on someone stealing office pens and decided it wasn’t worth the paperwork.

"Didn’t see a thing," he offered smoothly, voice calm and casual like a barista reading off a latte order. Then, in one fluid motion, he stepped back and shut the door behind him like he was sealing a vault of scandal.

"Anyway," he muttered, already walking away, "not my circus, not my monkey."

He strolled casually down the hall, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just become the sole witness to a potential Hollywood Armageddon.

He shook his head, lips twitching into a grin. "Does this qualify as blackmail material?" he mused aloud.

He paused, tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Nah. Probably already signed ten NDAs, a prenup, and a soul-binding pact with their PR team."

Still, the amusement lingered.

This mansion had it all—money, luxury, beautiful people, betrayal, and now bonus live-action drama. It was like stumbling into the unaired pilot of a scandalous reality show. At this rate, Rex half-expected a narrator to start recapping his evening.

Showbiz really was wilder in real life.

(End of Chapter)