Chapter 384: Paige and Brielle: First Come, First Served

"We’re really doing this,

aren’t we?"

Paige Heavenchild’s voice came out breathy... a girl who’d spent the last forty minutes in a booth telling herself she was just here to celebrate someone else’s victory and not the voice of a girl who’d been watching a boy laugh from across the VIP section and slowly losing every internal argument she’d ever had with her own traitorous wants.

Brielle shrugged..

"Would you rather just

watch

from the sidelines?"

"No

way

."

The words ripped out of Paige so fast they nearly choked her. Watching was the

worst fate

imaginable—because watching was all they’d ever done.

In Marcus’s shadow. In his orbit. Footnotes to his perfection, footnotes with tits and asses that turned heads but never owned the room. The Heavenchild twins. Details scarce—they exist in Marcus’s shadow.

That’s what people said. And Paige and Brielle had swallowed it for years, smiled through it, played supporting cast in the Marcus Heavenchild Show while they ached for someone—

anyone

—to look at them like they were the main fucking event.

But tonight, Marcus wasn’t here.

Tonight Marcus was somewhere licking wounds that would take more than bandages and daddy’s money to fix.

And the boy who’d carved those wounds was thirty feet away—arms spread wide across the back of a leather couch like he owned the gravity in the room, legs spread just enough to make every girl in sight imagine

sliding between them

, head tilted back, amethyst eyes warm with something dangerously close to joy, laughing that low, chest-deep laugh that made thighs clench and nipples pebble without permission.

The spaces on either side of him were

empty

.

Open. Inviting. Leather still warm where his arms rested, practically begging for two girls to slide in beneath them and claim proximity to the centre of the fucking universe.

They’d dressed for war tonight. More aggressively than they had for the cheerleading competition, more shamelessly than they’d ever dared.

Paige’s dress was crimson satin—liquid, clinging, neckline plunging so deep it barely contained the heavy,

natural swell of her tits

.

Every breath made them rise and threaten to spill, nipples already hard and visible through the thin fabric like dark little secrets begging to be sucked.

The hem rode high on her thighs—short enough that bending forward would flash the black lace thong that was already soaked through from watching him laugh.

Brielle’s was black—same cut, same shameless plunge, but the fabric had a subtle sheen that caught the light every time her hips rolled.

Her ass was obscene

—round, high

, the kind that jiggled with every step and made men forget their own names.

The dress hugged it like it was trying to crawl inside her, the back dipping low enough to show the dimples above her cheeks and the thin strip of thong disappearing between them.

Their bodies were weapons tonight.

Full tits that bounced with every heartbeat, nipples stiff and shameless under thin fabric. Hips that swayed like promises.

Their eyes locked on him.

What started as a contained celebration in the private booths had outgrown its cage—the energy

too big, too restless, too

hungry

to stay bottled

.

Phei and his group had migrated to the main VIP floor—the wide-open space with the dance floor, the long bar, the layout that let you see and be seen, which was the entire point of a place like the Crimson Eden Noire.

Sierra, Maddie, and Delilah had arrived at the perfect moment.

The three of them materialising just as Phei transitioned from the private Simp celebration to the main floor—like they’d been waiting in some shadowed alcove.

They’d danced with him. All three at once.

Sierra pressed close on one side—controlled heat, predatory grace, hips rolling like she’d studied the rhythm of his cock and choreographed herself to match every pulse.

Maddie on the other—

chaos incarnate

, hips moving independent of gravity or shame, grinding against him in ways that made the air around them feel thicker, hotter, wetter.

Delilah woven between them—shyer, less certain, but her hands found his waist and

stayed

, fingers digging in like she’d rather die than let go, her tits pressed to his chest, nipples hard enough to cut glass through her dress.

Three princesses. One dragon.

The dance floor had cleared around them without anyone deciding to—because watching those four move together felt like witnessing something private, something sacred, something that would burn you if you got too close.

Phei had called it quits eventually. Not tired—the dragon didn’t tire from this—but

satisfied

.

He’d found the leather couch.

Before anyone else could claim the adjacent space,

Maya Scarlett

had materialised.

She did that. Just...

appeared

. Silver hair catching crimson light like liquid mercury, knowing eyes finding him with sniper precision.

She didn’t speak.

Just sat beside him, curled into his side, tucked her head against his chest like it was a docking station she’d been built for. His arm came around her shoulders without thought—

possessive.

They’d watched together. Silent. Content.

The silver-haired shadow

operative

and the dragon, sitting in a sea of bass and bodies like two people at the eye of a hurricane who’d found each other and decided the storm could wait.

Sierra, Maddie, and Delilah kept dancing.

Amber

joined—drawn by the music, the momentum, the gravitational pull of orbiting the same sun.

Then they pulled Maya in—tugging her from Phei’s side with laughter and grabbing hands. She went reluctantly at first, then with that shy smile that cracked her

shadow-empress

mask and showed the girl underneath.

Even Emily—

Emily

—who treated fun like a scheduling conflict, let herself be dragged onto the floor.

And now here Phei sat.

Arms spread wide across the back of the couch—left and right, claiming space with the

unconscious dominance

of a man who didn’t know how to sit any other way. Laughing—actually

laughing

—that low, chest-deep sound that made many cunts clench and nipples pebble without permission.

The spaces on either side of him

empty

.

Open. Warm. Leather still dented where his arms rested, practically begging for two girls to slide in beneath them and claim proximity to the centre of the fucking universe.

Paige and Brielle saw those spaces.

Saw their opening.

And began to move.

"You’d better stay out."

Two voices. Behind them. Simultaneous. Cold enough to freeze the sweat on the back of Paige’s neck into razor shards.

The twins didn’t turn.

Didn’t dare.

Their bodies seized in unison—spines rigid, shoulders locked, the animal part of their brains overriding every horny ambition screaming in their heads.

Because those voices—they knew those voices. Knew the temperature. The frequency.

The promise woven into every syllable that said

this is not a suggestion and you already know what happens when you test me

.

Victoria Maxton and Nastya Romano.

In the

daylight hierarchy of Paradise

—at the galas, the charity luncheons, the public stages where reputations were polished and appearances were currency—Victoria Maxton was the poised eldest daughter,

Nastya Romano

the

responsible Romano Princess

.

Elegant. Composed.

The girls younger princesses studied like textbooks, hoping to one day copy the posture, the smile, the effortless way they made power look like grace.

Daylight, as it turned out, was always a fucking

liar.

In the shadows—behind closed doors—Victoria Maxton was

cruel

. Not Sierra’s theatrical

Hell-Bitch-Queen

cruelty with its flair.

Victoria’s was

clinical.

Quiet. Surgical. She found your weakest point the way a doctor finds a tumour, then pressed until something broke. She’d been honing it since before most of the academy girls had their

first period

—college sharpened the blade, real stakes gave it weight.

And

Nastya—

Everyone thought Nastya was the gentle one. The reasonable one. The soft hand that kept

Gianna’s

craziness

from burning the whole city down.

Everyone was

wrong

.

Nastya Romano was the responsible one because someone in a mafia family young generation had to be. Someone had to know exactly where the bodies weren’t buried but could be dug up in a weekend.

Someone had to smile sweetly while holding a knife behind their back—not because they planned to use it, but because the

option

meant they never had to. The gentleness was real. But it was a

choice

,

not a limitation.

And

choices could be

revoked.

Paige stared at the floor.

Brielle stared at the floor.

Neither moved. Neither breathed.

They stood frozen in the crimson light like rabbits who’d heard the twig snap and still hadn’t decided whether running would make the teeth sink deeper.

Victoria and Nastya walked past them.

Close enough that Victoria’s shoulder brushed Paige’s—deliberate, casual, the lightest contact that felt like a brand. Nastya’s perfume lingered in Brielle’s space for a full three seconds after she’d passed—something dark, expensive, faintly metallic, like blood under roses.

A reminder. A branding.

We were here. You were in our way. Remember the difference.

The message was surgical.

While the Heavenchild twins had been sitting in that booth for forty minutes—building courage, timing their window, rehearsing lines—Victoria and Nastya had been planning longer. Better. With contingency plans and a living security detail, because college girls didn’t leave things to chance the way academy girls did.

This wasn’t

first come, first served.

This was

the eagle already circling while the early bird was still deciding whether to fly.

And in Paradise’s invisible hierarchy—where family name and your ranking (Main or Immediate) meant authority and two princesses outranked Heavenchild Immediates the way generals

outranked

lieutenants—Paige and Brielle Heavenchild, for all their family’s terrifying power, were outgunned.