"Set up?" Phei echoed, trying not to stare at the way her robe gaped just enough when she leaned forward.
She smiled. Not warm. Not kind. Predatory. Satisfied. The smile of a woman who'd finally found something worth investing in.
"For your new life," she said lightly. "You can't keep walking around like the family's walking guilt trip. Not anymore. Not when you're…" A tiny pause, cheeks flushing just enough to betray her. "…not when you're my man, my dragon now."
Right.
The Dragon.
Her Dragon.
Without warning, she speared a piece of chicken and lifted it to his mouth. Fed him. Casual as breathing. Like this was normal dinner behavior and not completely deranged.
He took the bite, chewing slowly while she reached for the new iPhone—the one still foreign in his grip.
She tilted the phone toward him.
Banking apps already logged in, linked straight to Paradise Wines accounts that made his stomach flip. Shopping platforms pre-loaded with one-click oblivion. A folder labeled Services—discreet drivers, private couriers, cleaners who didn't ask questions, fixers who made problems evaporate.
"You'll need clothes," she continued, already on some minimalist luxury site that looked like it charged extra for color. "Real ones. Not Danton's sad castoffs that smell like entitlement and cheap cologne."
Phei swallowed. "I can't just show up in Gucci tomorrow. Harold will notice. The kids will notice."
"So we don't make it obvious." Items flew into the cart—jeans that cost more than his old monthly wage, shirts cut like they were designed for someone who mattered, jackets subtle enough to pass. "You saved up from the gas station job. You're seventeen. You wanted to stop looking homeless. No one will care enough to dig deeper."
She was right.
No one ever had.
"But for the apartment," she said, eyes gleaming now, "that's different. There, you can dress like the man you are when no one's watching." More additions—premium workout gear, five full sets as promised.
Sleek running outfits.
Swim trunks that probably wouldn't embarrass him poolside. Gym clothes built for performance, not punishment. Even formalwear—"just in case." Underwear so luxurious it felt like an insult to his current cotton tragedies.
"Melissa—"
"Don't argue." Her tone brooked no debate. "You're building something. Building yourself. You can't do that dressed like you're one rejected signature away from the curb. You need to look the part—at least when you're not playing the pathetic orphan for Harold's ego."
Fair.
That was the new arrangement: publicly invisible, privately unstoppable.
She leaned back at last, cart finalized, gaze sliding over him again. Assessing. Measuring. Like a venture capitalist appraising her most promising—and dangerous—startup.
And in that moment, Phei understood it perfectly.
This wasn't charity.
This wasn't even affection.
This was investment.
She was funding his rise because she intended to collect—body, soul, and every future conquest—with interest. And he was more than happy to let her think she'd get her money's worth.
She added toiletries next—shampoo that cost more per bottle than Phei's hourly wage, conditioner promising weightless hydration, body wash scented like forbidden forests, cologne with notes so sophisticated they probably had their own LinkedIn profiles, and a skincare lineup that looked like it required a PhD to operate.
"Your apartment needs to be stocked," Melissa said, fingers still flying. "Can't have you showing up empty-handed like some broke college freshman raiding his mom's cabinet."
Then came the domestic avalanche: Egyptian-cotton sheets with thread counts in the quadruple digits, plush towels thick enough to muffle screams, kitchenware that gleamed like it judged lesser metals, coffee beans pre-ground by angels.
Everything required to turn a sterile luxury box into an actual lair.
"The condo comes furnished," she explained, "but it's that soulless hotel-suite level of luxury. You'll want to personalize it. Make it yours. Make it somewhere women want to stay the night—and the morning after."
Twenty minutes later the cart sat at fifteen grand.
Phei's stomach performed an Olympic-level somersault. That was rent-for-a-year money. Therapy-for-a-decade money. Fifteen thousand dollars vanished with the same casual ease most people spent on a pizza delivery.
"It's fine," Melissa said, reading his face like subtitles. "This is my money, not Harold's personal vault. And it's an investment. In you." A pause, eyes flicking up to meet his. "In us."
She finalized the purchase without ceremony, then immediately dialed a number.
"Yes, this is Madaline (her fake name). Account ending in four-seven-two-nine." Rattled off digits like ammunition. "Large order just placed for delivery to Downtown Paradise, unit 47B. I need your premium setup team tomorrow afternoon—full unpack, clothes hung and folded, toiletries arranged, kitchen stocked, linens on the bed, the works. Make it livable. Charge the service fee to the same card. Thank you."
Click.
"Done," she said, smiling like she'd just solved world hunger. "By tomorrow evening, your apartment will be move-in ready. You could bring a woman there tonight and she'd think you've lived like this forever."
Phei stared. "That simple?"
"Everything in Paradise is simple when you have money and the right last name," she replied. Fed him another bite of chicken—he accepted it automatically now, like a trained circus animal who'd discovered the trainer was also the prize. "Welcome to the winning team, Phei."
"There's one more thing," she said, switching to her everyday phone. Another call, brisk and authoritative. "Yes, hello, this is Mrs. Maxton. I need three complete new uniforms for Phei Maxton, Ashford Elite Academy. His current sets are… frankly embarrassing. Rush delivery—tonight if possible? Wonderful. Bill it to the family account."
She hung up, stood, and walked straight to Phei's ratty school bag by the door. Pulled out his old uniform like it had personally offended her.
Phei watched, half-horrified, half-impressed, as she proceeded to sabotage it with surgical precision: ripped a seam along the shoulder, dribbled red wine across the sleeve, scuffed the trousers against the table leg until they looked authentically trashed.
"Evidence," she said, catching his stare. "Harold asks why we're suddenly replacing your uniforms, I produce these disasters and sigh about how I only just noticed the state of them. Maternal negligence, et cetera. He'll grunt, sign the check, and forget by dessert."