Urban System in America
Chapter 216 - 215: Pool Party

Chapter 216: Chapter 215: Pool Party

After excusing himself from the walking tabloid headline that was the lip-locked celebrity couple, Rex wandered deeper into the mansion. He figured he’d already stumbled upon the wildest thing the night had to offer.

How wrong he was.

The mansion, true to its decadent design, wasn’t just one grand hall or a few glittery rooms thrown together. No, this place was a never-ending luxury labyrinth—a theme park for the ultra-rich, curated by someone who clearly thought "privacy" was an outdated concept. Velvet ropes? Guards? Please. This mansion was an open buffet of excess, and everyone was invited to stare.

Just as he was strolling lazily, he suddenly heard the sound of splashes. Drawn by the sound of splashing water and laughter, Rex found himself following a wide archway draped in sheer curtains that fluttered lazily in the breeze.

Waterfall sounds?

With rising curiosity, he rounded the corner and walked straight into what could only be described as a luxury indoor oasis—a space so extravagant it made Roman bathhouses look like dollar-store kiddie pools. The ceiling soared high above, carved with sea goddesses and sun motifs. An artificial waterfall cascaded dramatically down polished black stone into the shimmering pool, its gentle roar blending with upbeat lounge music.

And then his eyes widened.

And what he saw truly opened the eye of virgin(well..mentally) like him. It was like someone had opened a portal to a luxury swimsuit catalog. Dozens of bikini-clad beauties reclined on designer loungers, their oiled legs catching the ambient light like they’d been strategically placed by an art director. And equal number of them swimming around in the pool like little mermaids.

And of course, muscular models—shirtless and glistening—played lazy rounds of pool volleyball, sipping from champagne flutes like it was electrolyte water, showing their full charms. Laughter danced through the air as models flirted, splashed, and occasionally faked dramatic dives into the pool just for the attention.

Among the sea of perfect abs and collagen-kissed cheeks, Rex noticed a different kind of participant, it was not tot notice them, because in these almost naked beauties, they stood out like sore thumb—the aging men and women who looked far too overdressed for the pool but somehow managed to be the center of attention.

They lounged like emperors, being fed grapes, fanned lazily, and waited on hand and foot. On one side, a silver-haired gentleman whispered into the ear of a bikini beauty half his age while stroking a diamond-encrusted cane. On the other, a tanned woman in her sixties giggled as two young male models massaged her shoulders and flirted with all the subtlety of a cologne ad—an ad that was clearly directed by someone who had never heard of subtlety in the first place.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. These stunning men and women weren’t guests. They were entertainment—party models, perhaps freelancers in the business of attention, networking, and, occasionally, being chosen. It was an open secret in the industry, whispered about in forums and spilled in tell-all biographies. Some of these "decorations" would be spotted years later gracing magazine covers, starring in Oscar-bait indies, or launching million-dollar beauty lines.

But tonight? Tonight, they were here to be seen. He knew this, of course, because he had heard many such stories in his past life—rumors and tabloid confessions about now-famous actresses who once started as party models for the rich and powerful. Back then, they had been part of scenes just like this, hoping to be noticed, to catch the eye of someone influential, to turn a single night into a career-defining moment. It was no surprise that these men and women were here with the same glittering ambitions—ready to trade charm, beauty, or even more—for a shot at stardom.

Even though their actions seemed flirtatious and inviting, there was a thin veil of restraint. Everything still had a layer of class, of staging. Nothing too explicit—not here, not yet. But the undertones were clear. Rex even spotted a middle-aged man walking off with one of the bikini beauties, arm-in-arm like a couple going off to discuss existentialism.

Even though it might seem wrong or immoral to some, that’s just how the game is played here. Everyone has their own aspirations and goals, and these men and women? They’re willing to trade beauty, charm, and occasionally more, for a shot at something bigger. Even though it may seem wrong, immoral, or transactional—but it’s their choice. Who was he to judge? After all, he’d heard plenty of stories in his past life about how many now-famous stars had started from places just like this, charming their way up the ladder one party at a time.

Even though he had countless thoughts swirling in his mind, outwardly, Rex didn’t even flinch. He strolled into the poolside scene with all the ease of someone walking into their own kitchen for a midnight snack. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-laugh. Eyes did double-takes and subtle squints, trying to place him.

He didn’t miss a beat—just offered a polite nod, as if he was merely passing through and not making half the room rethink their relationship status.

It wasn’t his presence that shocked them— It was his looks.

Sharp. Otherworldly. handsome. The kind of looks that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence, drop their drinks, or reconsider their entire dating history. A walking Renaissance painting in a designer suit.

Several bikini beauties whispered with sparkling eyes:

"Damn. Who is he? Is he one of the rented models?"

"Why haven’t I seen him before?"

A stunning dark-skinned woman, still fuming from being passed over by her previous target, scoffed, "Are you blind or just born without common sense? Look at his clothes. That watch. That posture. Does he look like one of us to you?"

The other woman blinked. "So... he’s rich?"

"Rich? Honey, he might own one of us before dessert."

But Rex’s entrance hit the male models like a malfunctioning spotlight—sudden, unwanted, and impossible to ignore.

Many of them had come here with pride tucked into their chiselled jaws and photo-ready abs, believing—rightly so—that even if they didn’t have the deep wallets of the guests, they still ruled in the looks department. Their charm was currency, their bodies carefully sculpted trophies. They could handle being playthings for the rich, as long as they were the prettiest playthings in the room.

And then came Rex.

(End of Chapter)