The mansion never slept. Not the staff polishing marble floors at midnight, not the guards that patrolled with demon hounds, and definitely not Nitron's house. This was where deals were sealed and secrets buried, but tonight… whispers traveled faster than the wine.
Elma felt them. Eyes cutting her way as she moved through the hall in her slit dress, the silk clinging like it knew what she'd just done. Servants stared a little too long. Even some of the rival guests—still lingering from the gala—watched her with that knowing smirk, like they'd caught the scent of something forbidden.
Nitron? Still silent. He sat at the head of the obsidian dining table, scrolling his datapad, answering questions with clipped words. The CEO mask hadn't slipped once since the limo.
But the mask wasn't the problem. The problem was her.
Her body still pulsed. Every nerve screamed reminder. She could feel him inside her still, phantom heat making her thighs ache. And that's what made her dangerous—because she wasn't just another pawn anymore. She'd touched the one thing nobody else dared touch.
Then came the wife.
Calista.
She glided into the dining hall with all the elegance money could buy. Gown black as ink, hair swept into a crown of silver pins, eyes sharp enough to slice. Calista didn't just command a room—she owned it. And every demon, rival, and servant bent their gaze when she passed.
Elma froze.
The wife's eyes skimmed the room, slow, calculating, and then landed on her. Not for long. Just a second. But that second carried the weight of suspicion.
"Another waitress, Nitron?" Calista's voice was silk over blades. She moved closer, lips curving into the faintest smile. "You cycle through them so quickly."
Nitron didn't flinch. "She's top-tier. Efficient. Nothing more."
Elma almost laughed. Efficient? After what he'd done to her body? If Calista only knew.
But maybe she did.
The system chimed in Elma's head:
[Warning: Detected — Rival Queen]
Power Level: Hidden
Threat: Critical
Opportunity: Greater
Her pulse quickened. So this was the next rival. Not a stranger, not a client. The wife.
Calista brushed a glass of wine from a servant's tray, eyes never leaving Elma now. "Efficient?" she repeated, circling like a cat. "She looks… fragile. I doubt she could withstand the appetites of your clients. Or yours."
Elma's smirk curled before she could stop it. "Fragile isn't the word people usually use for me."
The room stiffened.
Nitron's hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist—but he didn't stop her. Didn't shut her up.
And that told Elma everything.
Calista tilted her head, eyes narrowing, studying her like prey—or competition. "We'll see," she murmured, sipping her wine.
Later, in the quiet of the hall, a rival brushed past Elma. Not demon, not human, something else. He leaned close enough for his breath to ghost her ear.
"You think you're untouchable," he whispered. "But cracks show. The master's wife knows. She always knows."
Elma didn't flinch. She let her smirk spread, slow and sharp. "Good. Then maybe she'll be fun to break."
The rival laughed, dark and low, and slipped into the shadows.
Her system pulsed again.
[New Quest Available: Seduce or Destroy the Wife]
Choice will alter storyline permanently.
Elma's chest rose with heat. She glanced back at the dining room, where Calista's laughter rang soft and poisonous.
One thought cut through everything:
This house isn't big enough for both of us.