Chapter 127: Mansion Diaries of a Very Well-Dressed Sex God-Virus

Turns out I didn’t even need to pitch Charlotte on my sex mansion idea.

While I was busy turning Isabella into a blushing, breathless wreck over FaceTime and staking my claim on Janet like a Wall Street acquisition, Charlotte and Madison were apparently conducting a hostile takeover of their own.

’Because of course they were. Leave it to two apex predators in heels to coordinate logistics while I was busy getting spiritually exfoliated by supernatural coochie.

I had barely started explaining that I needed somewhere private to conduct my more

sensitive operations

—read: "avoid getting caught running blacksite AI experiments next to Mom’s herb garden"—when Charlotte raised her hand with that boardroom Jedi-move that will probably one day silence an entire panel of Saudi oil execs after I turn her into a powerhouse.

"Already handled," she said, wearing that quiet-smug smile that only shows up when someone’s made three moves you didn’t see and just put your queen in check.

"Madison and I had a very productive conversation with your mother," she added, with the warmth of someone who’d just adopted me without asking, "while you were handling your... technical difficulties."

Madison stepped in, slid her fingers into mine, and yeah—my enhanced cognition still lagged every time she touched me like that. Natural. Effortless. Like she’d always belonged on my arm.

"We told her about your engineering gig needs," she said. "The privacy concerns. The high-profile clientele. The need for a secure environment that isn’t, y’know, your mom’s living room."

’Jesus Christ. They double-teamed my mother while I was mid-orgasm with a banshee. That’s either peak loyalty or terrifying female alliance energy. Possibly both.’

Charlotte didn’t miss a beat. "Given your new status and the importance of discretion, I recommended one of my private estates in Lincoln Heights. Close enough to home and school, but completely off-radar for anything... sensitive."

She pulled out her phone, swiped through a few photos like she was choosing a handbag instead of a covert HQ, then handed it over.

"This should meet all your operational needs."

And just like that—one glance at the screen—and my brain did what it rarely does.

It crashed.

’No fucking way. She’s talking about the Vampire House.’

Not

a

vampire house.

The

Vampire House. The crown jewel of Lincoln Heights urban legends. That Gothic monstrosity behind wrought-iron gates tall enough to make God feel insecure, all buried under ivy like it was auditioning for a Tim Burton remake of

Downton Abbey: Blood Edition

. It looked like Dracula had gentrified.

The architecture? Medieval. The location? Dead center in suburban California, as if it had crash-landed from 12th-century Romania and nobody thought to question it.

The place Tommy swore was ground zero for vampire blood orgies. The same Tommy who once tried to make us eat raw steak because he read online that it kept "the bite" away. Every kid had a theory about it, but no one had the balls to walk past those gates after sundown.

I remembered being six to fifteen, tagging with Tommy and my sisters, all of us trading conspiracy theories like Pokémon cards. The gates were always locked, the grounds always manicured. Some mysterious landscaping crew came every week like they were getting paid in secrets. Not a soul ever seen entering. Not a single light ever on. Yet not a single weed dared grow crooked.

Charlotte caught the look on my face. "You know this place?"

I gave a slow nod, brain stalling.

"Every kid in Lincoln Heights knows this place."

I sounded like I was reporting a local death. "We used to pass by and dare each other to touch the gate. Tommy once told us vampires held PTA meetings in the basement."

It really looked like it got airlifted straight out of a Dracula wet dream and crash-landed in suburbia.

Tommy called it "the blood orgy fortress." Said vampires ran kinky cult meetings in the basement and drank from golden goblets shaped like screaming skulls. Told us they only mowed the lawn so it wouldn’t raise suspicion when they hosted full-moon rituals with politicians and Instagram witches.

Madison cracked up. "Tommy? Your best friend thinks Lincoln Heights has vampires?"

If only she knew how freakishly close he’s been to the truth in most of his crazy theories. Guy’s a conspiracy theorist with a sixth sense for stumbling into forbidden knowledge while looking for discount bao buns.

"Tommy’s got this gift for explaining absolute bullshit in ways that sound...lowkey plausible," I admitted. "Like, he once convinced half the parents on our street to cover their mirrors after sunset because of something called ’reflective possession theory.’ I think my mom still uses garlic air fresheners."

Madison snorted. "Wait — Tommy made all that up?"

"Yeah. He convinced three PTA moms that garlic necklaces were cheaper in bulk if you ordered off a Romanian black-market website. My mom still double-bolts her bedroom windows before she lives for her night shifts because of him." I did not admit to them that even now I still believed it until now that I know what exactly this house was.

Charlotte’s smile was all teeth. "Well, now you can tell them the vampires finally moved in."

Holy shit. She’s giving me the actual Vampire House.

The fortress every kid grew up whispering about was now mine. My new base of supernatural sin and morally flexible genius operations. The place feared for its blood-sucking residents was about to get a whole new lease on depravity—minus the blood, plus some other...fluids.

Tommy’s jokes about blood orgies weren’t wrong. He just didn’t predict I’d be the one

hosting

them.

Except instead of vampires, it’d be me — one teenager with supernatural enhancements, dangerous charm, and a gift for making women forget their birth control and their regrets.

Blood? No. Sweat, moans, secrets, and shattered self-restraint? Hell yes.

The Vampire House was about to get rebranded.

New name.

New master.

Same creepy gates — now with better orgasms inside.

"This is..." I started, then stopped—because how the hell do you explain to a billionaire CEO that she just handed you your childhood fantasy villain lair?

Madison didn’t wait. She squeezed my hand like she’d just orchestrated a private miracle. "Perfect," she said, eyes bright with mischief "Isolated. Secure. Mysterious enough that no one will question why your ’software engineering work’ requires reinforced doors and dead zones."

Charlotte nodded, calm and matter-of-factly, like she hadn’t just casually handed me the keys to a Bond villain’s retirement castle. "The estate’s been unoccupied for three years. Maintained weekly. Full security grid. Multiple master suites. Conference-level facilities. Enough space for visiting family, without compromising whatever professional mythos you’re curating."

Multiple master suites. Reinforced privacy. Conference space disguised as legitimacy. She was listing logistical specs, but all I could hear was:

fortress, temple, kingdom.

This woman just described my ideal supernatural seduction compound without realizing she’d nailed it down to the goddamn perimeter.

Or maybe she did. Because Charlotte’s next smile had that quiet, satisfied bite—the kind that said she knew exactly what sort of palace a man like me might need.

And then, with the kind of smirk that could only come from someone who absolutely knew what game she was playing, Charlotte added, "Plus, the neighborhood thinks it’s haunted. Cursed, actually. One too many stories about tragic deaths and doors that open on their own. I suspect you’ll find the rumor useful. Something-something-dead-nuns-in-the-walls. Point is—no one’s going to knock. Or wander up the driveway."

I leaned in.

Stone walls that looked like they could swallow screams. Gates that whispered no one gets in unless I want them to. Enough space to go full Dark Lord mode without worrying about telescopes, drones, or neighborhood apps pinging my location.

The Vampire House.

Tommy’s going to piss himself when he ever finds out I moved into the mansion he swore was a demonic embassy.

Which—let’s be real—is exactly what it’s about to become.

"When can I move in?" I asked, trying to keep the grin out of my voice.

Charlotte handed me the key like a coronation.

"Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Desiderion."