Ethan sat on his bed, the system's interface still glowing faintly in his vision like a ghost in the dim room.
It was the only thought he had in his mind right now.
The taboo of it twisted in his gut, but the system didn't care about family ties; it saw prey, high-value MILF meat to corrupt and claim.
He closed the interface with a thought, rubbing his temples.
A knock on the door snapped him out of it, sharp and insistent, not Vanessa's hesitant tap. "Ethan? You awake?"
It was Aunt Charlize's voice, husky and commanding. He recognized it with his heightened senses.
Though a frown appeared on his face as he wondered why she was here.
He stood up, patted his clothes, and then walked to the door and then unlocked it.
She filled the frame, still in that low-cut blouse and tight jeans, her green eyes locking on his with that appraising stare.
"Hey, nephew. Mind if I come in?"
"Sure."
He stepped aside, and she entered without waiting, the room feeling smaller with her presence—her hips swaying as she glanced around, taking in the posters, the unmade bed, and the laptop on the desk.
She turned to him, arms crossing under her heavy breasts, pushing them up in a way that drew his eyes despite himself.
"How about you and I take a stroll around? There's a place in the city I want to show you. Philly's not far. It'll be fun.
Educational, even."
Ethan hesitated for a beat, mind racing—the system prompt flashing again in his head, Charlize as the target.
Opportunity.
"Sure. Why not?"
She grinned, sharp and satisfied.
"Good boy. Get dressed—something simple. Shirt and jeans.
Meet me out front in five."
He nodded, and she left, her ass flexing in those jeans as she walked out.
Ethan stripped quickly, pulling on a plain black button-up shirt that hugged his new chest and arms, the fabric stretching over his pecs, and dark jeans that fit snug on his thighs. He checked the mirror—looked good, strong, the kind of man who'd turn heads.
Downstairs, he heard the voices—Richard laughing, Vanessa's tight politeness.
He slipped out the front door without a word, but as he passed the living room archway, Charlize was there, grabbing her coat.
"Ready?"
Vanessa called from the kitchen.
"Ethan? Where are you going?"
Charlize answered for him, voice dripping honey.
"Just borrowing your son for a bit, sis-in-law.
Aunt-nephew bonding.
We'll be back late."
Vanessa appeared, robe tied tight, eyes narrowing at Charlize.
"It's a school night."
Charlize rolled her eyes, subtle but pointed.
"He's eighteen. A man now. Let him live a little."
The tension crackled.
Richard waved from the couch.
"Vanessa let her take him."
Ethan followed Charlize out, but as they walked down the driveway, the system's rewards burned in his mind.
Kiss her—100 points.
He glanced at her, the curve of her neck, the sway of her hips. He moved a little closer to her.
Intimidation hit him suddenly, heavy as lead in his chest.
Charlize had always been the cool aunt, distant but strong, but now there was pressure—her presence like a weight, that confident stride, the way she owned the space around her.
He could see a faint energy, just like how he felt in him; he saw it in her.
It wasn't there before; now it pressed on him, making his throat tight. He tried to lean in as they reached the car, brush her arm, and maybe pull her into a quick kiss under the streetlamp.
"Aunt Charlize—"
She turned sharply, eyes piercing.
"Not now, Ethan. Get in."
Her voice had an edge, not angry, but commanding, like she saw through him.
He froze, the attempt dying on his lips.
Too intimidated by that heavy pressure from her aura—strong, unyielding, absent in their earlier hug but now thick as fog.
He couldn't push.
Not yet.
He climbed into the passenger seat instead.
Her sleek black Mercedes purred to life, leather seats hugging him like a glove, the dashboard glowing soft blue with high-tech displays. Charlize drove smoothly, accelerating out of the cul-de-sac with a roar, Westview's quiet suburbs fading behind them.
The drive to Philadelphia was thirty minutes—highway lights flashing by, billboards for cheesesteaks and Eagles games blurring in the night.
It was 10:30 by the time they hit the city limits, Philly alive even this late: skyscrapers piercing the sky like lit spears, streets buzzing with cars and pedestrians, and neon signs from bars and diners casting rainbow glows on the pavement.
The City of Brotherly Love didn't sleep—lights everywhere, from the glowing Comcast Center to the historic buildings in Old City bathed in floodlights, traffic humming even on a weeknight.
Charlize navigated the streets expertly, weaving through Center City with the confidence of someone who knew the place.
"It's been a while since I was back east," she said, her voice casual over the hum of the engine. "L.A.'s got the sun, but Philly's got soul. You ever been to the real heart of it, Ethan? Not the tourist shit—the places where things happen after dark?"
He shook his head, watching her profile—sharp jaw, full lips curved in a secret smile.
As they drove, Ethan noticed something in Charlize again, faint but undeniable.
There was that similar energy oozing out of her, like the one he had but darker, more primal.
It was faint, a subtle hum around her like heat off pavement, but he could see it—feel it—in the way she gripped the wheel, her fingers strong and sure, and the way her eyes flicked to the sides.
It wasn't the demonic lust from Lilithara, but something akin, a raw power that made his skin tingle. Absent before, but now, in the confined space of the car, it pressed on him like invisible hands.
He was confused as to why he remembered Liti while watching his aunt. She wasn't like Lili but even more mysterious.
They pulled up to a massive skyscraper in the heart of downtown—glass and steel towering into the night, lights twinkling from offices on lower floors, the top shrouded in mystery.
Charlize parked at the entrance, a valet in a crisp black uniform rushing over immediately.
"Ms. Embrey," he said, recognizing her with a nod, no question.
"Good to see you back. Usual spot?"
She handed over the keys with a smile.
"Thanks, Mark. Take good care of her."
The valet nodded, eyes flicking to Ethan, curious but polite.
"Of course. Enjoy your evening."
The building staff knew her—doormen in suits opening the glass doors with a "Welcome back, Ms. Embrey," security at the lobby desk waving her through without a scan.
"Evening, ma'am. Guest with you?"
Charlize nodded.
"My nephew. He's clear."
They didn't argue.
The lobby was marble and chrome, and the elevators were sleek and silent.
Charlize led him to one marked "Private—Floors 40+," swiping a keycard that lit the panel green. The ride up was smooth, floors ticking by fast, Ethan's ears popping at the height.
Charlize stood close, her scent filling the small space—floral, musky, intoxicating.
He tried again, hand brushing her hip.
"Aunt Charlize, about earlier—"
She shot him a look, that energy flaring faint but strong enough to make him pull back.
"Not now."
The doors opened at the top, floor 52, and Ethan stepped into what looked like a medieval courtyard transported to the sky.
The space was massive and open-air but enclosed by glass walls that let the city lights twinkle like stars. Cobblestone floor underfoot, fountains bubbling in the center, ivy climbing trellises, torches flickering real flame along the edges.
But instead of stone benches, there were plush mattresses scattered on the floor—king-sized, draped in silk sheets and pillows, some occupied by couples or groups in various states of undress. Small drink bars dotted the perimeter, bartenders in black vests mixed cocktails under string lights, and tables were laden with platters of food—caviar, oysters, and chocolate-dipped fruits. Music pulsed low, sensual jazz with a beat that made hips sway.
The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and something earthier—sex.
Charlize took his arm, leading him through.
"Welcome to the real nightlife, nephew. The kind they don't advertise."
Two men dressed in black—security, built like tanks with earpieces—stepped from the shadows, blocking the path.
"Ma'am," one said, eyes on Ethan.
"Guest list only tonight."
Charlize smiled coolly, unfazed.
"He's with me. And my name's Charlize Embrey. Check your list."
They did—a quick glance at a tablet.
"Apologies, Ms. Embrey. Enjoy."
She took him deeper, to a secluded space off the courtyard—a velvet-rope area with low couches and more mattresses, lit by candles.
Young women were there, all in their twenties, beauties, one with long red hair and freckles and a body like a supermodel in a sheer dress; another brunette with olive skin and full lips, lingerie hugging her curves; and a blonde with blue eyes and perky tits spilling from a corset.
They lounged around a man in the center—forties, silver hair slicked back, suit unbuttoned to show a toned chest, cigar in hand.
He saw Charlize and stood up quick, smiling wide, arms open.
"Charlize! My favorite troublemaker. Been too long."
He hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks, European style.
"You look stunning, as always."
She laughed low.
"Flatterer. Ethan, meet Victor Russo. Old friend. Victor, my nephew Ethan."
Victor shook his hand firmly, eyes appraising like Charlize's had been.
"Nephew, huh?"
He then said, "Welcome to the den of pleasure."
Victor hosted them lavishly: drinks flowed—whiskey neat for Ethan and a martini for Charlize—and food platters of lobster bites, truffle fries, and decadent desserts. And the girls: Victor waved, and they swarmed—the redhead on Ethan's lap, whispering, "You look strong," her hand on his thigh; the brunette pouring his drink, breasts brushing his arm.
Charlize leaned back, sipping her martini.
"Enjoy, Ethan. Live a little."
He did, a redhead kissing his neck, hands roaming his chest; a blonde joining, lips on his ear. They were pros, beauties paid or willing, bodies grinding in the candlelight.
Ethan lost himself for a bit, hands groping soft flesh, mouths hot and eager.
But his eyes kept drifting to Charlize—talking to older men in suits, laughing at their jokes, her energy that faint hum, like a similar power to the system's but her own, oozing subtly from her skin.
He tried to get a move on her—sliding closer between girls, hand brushing her knee.
"Aunt Charlize—"
She shut it down quick, eyes sharp.
"Not here, nephew."
No chance given, her attention on the men—rich types, one with a Rolex flashing, another with a cigar like Victor's. She seemed in her element, commanding without effort.
Past midnight—1:30 by his phone—they left.
Victor stood respectfully, hugging Charlize again.
"Always a pleasure. Come back soon. And bring the nephew—he's got potential."
In the elevator down, Ethan asked, voice low.
"What was that place?"
Charlize smiled enigmatically.
"Just a spot where rich people live their fetish life. No judgments, no rules—except discretion. The city's full of secrets like that."
As they came out, the valet had the Mercedes ready.
Ethan noticed it again—that faint energy from her, like the system's lust but twisted, personal, making the air thick.
They got in, engine purring, heading back to Westview on the highway—lights flashing by, Philly's glow fading in the rearview.
But halfway, she suddenly slowed, pulling onto the shoulder mid-highway, cars whizzing past. "Stay in the car," she said, voice firm, getting out and standing in front of the hood, facing the dark road.
Ethan watched, confused, the wind rocking the car as she stood there, arms crossed, staring into the night like she was waiting for something—or someone.