My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 299: [Make a Move on the Madam] The Dragon’s Last Stand
The moment he passed through the gates, the presence vanished.
Just like that.
One second: thousands of invisible needles grinding into his flesh, hundreds of eyes drilling holes through his skull, killing intent so thick it felt like breathing through wet concrete—and the next?
Nothing.
Gone.
Like someone flipped a switch and decided the dragon appetizer wasn’t worth the calories. Or maybe—more likely—
—they’d just let me walk deeper into the slaughterhouse so the kill would be cleaner. Sweeter. More theatrical.
Either way, Phei didn’t trust it for a single fucking heartbeat.
He pulled out his phone. Typed a quick message. Hit send. Pocketed it again.
The gates groaned closed behind him like the jaws of something ancient yawning awake.
He looked up.
And forgot how to breathe for entirely different reasons.
The Ashford Estate wasn’t a home.
It was a kingdom.
The distant view and pictures online hadn’t done shit justice. Now, standing on the endless central drive with those gates sealing shut at his back like a coffin lid, Phei finally saw what old money and older power could actually build when they stopped pretending to be humble.
The main palace—calling it a mansion would be like calling a great white shark a goldfish—rose in white and cream stone, Baroque architecture sprawling across three massive wings connected by colonnades and archways that looked like they’d been carved by angels with anger issues. Blue-gray slate roofs gleamed under the evening lights, dozens of chimneys and dormer windows breaking the skyline like the teeth of a sleeping predator. The central section alone was four stories of obscene grandeur—balustrades dripping with carved friezes, gilded window frames catching the glow of hundreds of exterior lights like the place was trying to outshine God on a budget.
The estate blazed.
Soft golden light poured from every window like molten money. Landscape lighting turned the geometric gardens into something from a fever dream crossed with Versailles on bath salts. Fountains lined the central drive—six of them, three on each side—water cascading in elegant tiers, lit from beneath so they glowed like liquid fucking gold.
(pictures here)
Many cars dotted the circular drive near the entrance—not normal cars, art pieces with wheels. He could see many Rolls-Royce Phantoms in midnight black so deep they looked like they absorbed light. Bentley Continentals in pearl white and three more, a vintage Aston Martin that screamed "I killed for this" and more.
Servants moved between them—uniformed staff in crisp black and white, carrying luggage, opening doors, disappearing through side entrances with practiced invisibility. At least a dozen he could see.
Probably three times that hidden in the wings, ready to materialize the second someone needed a napkin or a discreet body disposal.
The whole scene screamed we have more money than God and we want you to know it, peasant.
Phei swallowed.
And I’m here to deliver an apology letter like some medieval peasant begging forgiveness from the king after accidentally shitting on the royal carpet.
He walked forward.
A butler met him at the base of the grand staircase.
Tall. Silver-haired. Face carved from granite and generational disapproval. The kind of man who’d been serving aristocrats since before Phei’s parents were born and had perfected the art of looking at someone like they were mud tracked onto a priceless Persian rug.
"Mr. Maxton," the butler said.
"That’s me."
"I am Aldrich. I will escort you inside." A slight pause. Something flickered in those cold eyes—something that wasn’t quite disdain. "Madam is expecting you."
Phei’s step faltered.
Madam is expecting me?
That wasn’t right.
Apology visits like this—he’d researched the protocol—were handled by intermediaries. Secretaries. Junior staff.
You didn’t get an audience with the head of the household. You handed your envelope to some overdressed functionary, received a curt acknowledgment, and were escorted out before you could contaminate the marble with your peasant cooties.
But the Madam was expecting him?
Personally? He could smell the hidden agenda from here. Could taste it in the air like copper and old blood. The system’s mission suddenly made a lot more sense.
Survive and exit alive. His survival chances had just dropped from "slim" to "you’re already dead, you just haven’t fallen over yet."
"This way, Mr. Maxton."
Aldrich turned and walked up the stairs without waiting to see if Phei followed.
He followed.
The interior was...
He didn’t have time to process it.
Glimpses only—
Marble floors that looked like they’d been quarried from the moon. Chandeliers dripping with crystals the size of skulls. Walls lined with portraits of Ashfords past—every single one looking like they’d personally invented disdain. Hallways wide enough to drive a tank through. Doors that probably led to rooms bigger than entire neighborhoods.
Phei had no time for another breath.
[DING! There’s a silver lining between survival, courting death, and having nothing left to lose! Host is currently straddling all three! You might as well attempt this...]
[New Objective: Make a move on Madam Ashford!]
Aldrich moved fast for an old man, and the path he took was deliberate—through a side corridor, past closed doors that probably hid torture chambers or sex dungeons or both, until they reached an elevator.
Not a service elevator.
A private one.
Gold and glass and polished wood, tucked into an alcove like a secret only the truly depraved knew about.
Aldrich pressed his palm to a scanner. The doors slid open.
They stepped inside.
And Aldrich pressed the button for the seventh floor.
Phei blinked.
Seventh?
From the outside, the estate looked like four stories. Big stories, sure—each one probably fifty feet of vertical space—but four. Not seven.
Which meant...
Three floors underground? Hidden? Something else entirely?
He didn’t ask. Aldrich didn’t offer.
The elevator hummed upward.
[This could either contribute to your survival tonight... or sink you further into death.] The system continued...
[But what’s left to lose, Host?]
[If you’re to die, might as well make a last stand!]
[Who knows what might happen?]
[Rewards: Goddess Fall Touch — The reward worthy of attempting anything on a woman of her caliber. Makes the Goddesses themselves fall at your touch alone!]
Phei closed his eyes.
The elevator hummed around him. Smooth. Silent. Rising toward something that might kill him.
The system wants me dead. That was the only explanation. First the survival mission. Now this—make a move on the Madam? On the matriarch of the Ashford family? On the woman married to one of the most powerful men in Paradise... probably the world too?
This wasn’t a mission.
This was a death sentence wrapped in a bow made of bad decisions and worse timing.
But...
What’s left to lose?
The system was right about that, at least. He’d felt that presence at the gate. Felt it’s killing intent. Whatever waited for him on the seventh floor could end him with a thought. His survival wasn’t guaranteed—it wasn’t even likely.
He was walking into the dragon’s lair with nothing but a borrowed suit, an apology letter, and balls the size of grapefruits.
If he was going to die anyway...
A last stand won’t hurt. Will it?
No.
No, it fucking wouldn’t.
His brain had frozen somewhere at the gate. He wasn’t thinking anymore—couldn’t think, not really.
He was just... moving. Letting instinct drive. Letting his body carry him forward while his mind floated somewhere above, watching like a spectator at his own execution.
Just keep moving. Just act. Don’t think.
He felt a gaze on him.
Phei’s eyes snapped open.
Aldrich was staring at him.
Really staring. Not the dismissive glance of a servant cataloging a guest. Something else. Something that lingered on his face, his jaw, his chest visible through the partially unbuttoned collar of his new shirt.
Is this guy...
Phei held the stare.
Dude. You gay?
The butler’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted. Heat? Interest? The unmistakable weight of attraction poorly hidden behind professional composure?
Sorry, my friend. I know... I know I am godly beautiful but... I don’t swing that way.
Although...
If I survive tonight, I could introduce you to Brett and Danton. They’d probably be your type. Pretty boys. Flexible morals. Bonus: they already hate me, so you’d have common ground.
The thought almost made him laugh—here he was, riding an elevator toward probable death, mentally matchmaking the gay butler with his two least favorite Legacy pricks.
Focus, Phei. Focus.
The elevator chimed.
[FLOOR 7]
The doors slid open.
A hallway stretched before him.
Long. Wide. Lit with soft golden sconces that cast warm pools of light on walls covered in dark silk wallpaper that probably cost more than most people’s lives. Four doors—heavy wood, brass handles, evenly spaced along the corridor like the entrances to separate hells.
Aldrich stepped out first. Turned. Bowed slightly.
"The third door, Mr. Maxton." He gestured with one white-gloved hand. "Madam awaits." 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚
Then he stepped back into the elevator.
The doors closed.
And Phei was alone.
He stood there for a moment.
Just breathing.
The presence from the gate was still absent—no needles, no eyes, no killing intent pressing down on him. But he could feel something. A faint hum in the air. The sense that he was being watched by something that didn’t need eyes to see. Something that had already decided whether he lived or died and was just waiting for him to catch up.
Third door.
Madam awaits.
Make a move on Madam Ashford.
Goddess Fall Touch.
Let’s see if I survive tonight from that being and attempting one of the five most glorious ways to court death in Paradise—making out with the second most powerful man’s WIFE and making her mine.
He raised his hand.
Knocked.
