Read Novel Full Chapter 741: A Goddess in Paradise
Chapter 741: A Goddess in Paradise
With Lila awake, everything else became secondary.
The Ashley plan? Postponed.
The Dmitri revelation? It would unfold in its own time; my presence. The Quantum Tech visit? Charlotte would understand—some things transcended business.
Tonight belonged wholly to Lila. Tonight was about bringing her home.
She had slept for hours after first waking—true, restorative sleep, not the void of coma. Her body, at last convinced of its safety, had surrendered to healing.
When she stirred again—truly lucid, eyes bright and focused—I told her everything that had transpired after I carried her from that room. The hospital vigil. The endless waiting. The unshakeable certainty that she would return to me.
Then, in fragments halting and brave, she told me her story.
Lila. An orphan.
Raised in the indifferent machinery of state care, where children learned early that the world extended kindness only when it coveted something in return.
For Lila, that something was dance—raw, incandescent talent that could not be manufactured. Movement so pure it silenced rooms. The rare gift that surfaces perhaps once in a generation.
At fourteen, a scout had glimpsed her at a charity performance. At fifteen, an agency signed her. At sixteen, the bookings began in earnest.
By eighteen, she was ascending—featured dancer in videos, principal backup on major tours, her name murmured in the rarefied circles where careers are forged.
And every step of that ascent had been quietly underwritten by the Dex Family.
The agency that "discovered" her? Funded from Dex accounts. The showcase that launched her? Orchestrated so the right eyes were present. The doors that kept opening while others slammed shut? Dex influence turning the keys.
She had owed them everything.
They had ensured she never forgot it.
Youth and sudden fame breed missteps. Hers were minor—parties that ran too late, words spoken carelessly, photographs taken in compromising light. Nothing ruinous under ordinary circumstances.
But the agency catalogued each one. Every vulnerability. Every moment they had either engineered or exploited.
And with that ledger they built her cage.
Remain with us, or the photographs surface. Continue dancing, or the world learns of the indiscretions. Obey, or return to nothing.
She had been bound—chains forged from her own terror of powerlessness.
The Dex Family had bankrolled the entire apparatus, not from altruism, not from appreciation of art, but because they desired beautiful things on retainer.
Celebrities to ornament their gatherings. Escorts for prestige. Playthings for amusement.
Most of the agency’s talent acquiesced—attended the parties, smiled for cameras, allowed themselves to be circulated like exquisite currency—because refusal meant annihilation.
Lila drew a line.
She would attend. She would perform. She would play the grateful protégée.
But she would not yield her body.
She refused. Every time. No matter the mounting pressure.
Until Dex decided refusal was no longer an option.
That night—the celebration, the prelude—had been his announcement to his circle: the dancer who had denied him would finally learn the cost of no.
The room prepared. The champagne laced. The sequence calculated.
She had seen it coming. Had felt the net tightening for weeks as patience thinned and pretense dissolved.
Then I had walked into that room.
Spoken to her as a person, not property. Shown her a world beyond the walls.
For the first time in years, she had glimpsed the doors—massive, imposing barriers erected by agency and family alike—and dared to push them open.
She refused the drink. Refused compliance. Told Dex precisely what she thought of him, his lineage, his wealth, his presumed dominion.
Lila recounted it in measured fragments, pausing when memory cut too deeply, her voice steady even as her hands trembled.
When she finished, she looked at me with eyes I recognised—hope laced with terror.
Hope that freedom was real. Terror that it might yet be snatched away.
"You’re safe now," I told her, the words a vow. "You’re mine. And no one touches what is mine."
Then she broke—truly, completely—tears flooding as a decade of captivity shattered.
I held her while she came apart and, piece by careful piece, rebuilt herself into something unbreakable.
Hours later, I brought her home.
The estate rose before us as the AMG One purred up the drive—windows aglow with warm light, the forest beyond a dark, endless sea, the guest house itself a mansion in silhouette.
Lila stared through the glass, eyes widening.
"This is where you live?"
"This is where we live," I corrected gently. "All of us."
She had already known. I had explained it in the hospital—the unconventional household, the women who shared my life, the structure that defied ordinary expectation.
She had not flinched.
Had only looked at me and said, "After what I’ve endured, conventional is irrelevant. Safe matters. And you make me feel safe."
It was enough.
The car eased to a halt. I stepped out, circled to her door, offered my hand.
She emerged on legs still regaining strength—fragile in appearance, but standing unaided.
She wore simple jeans and a soft sweater Amanda had brought—clothes that made her look younger, smaller, the lingering bruises on her arms faint shadows beneath the sleeves. Hair pulled back.
No makeup.
Yet she carried herself with a quiet, emerging dignity.
I led her inside.
The great doors parted before we reached them—Homebots responding with fluid grace, chrome forms gliding aside in silent welcome.
Lila halted, eyes tracking the sleek machines.
"Those are—"
"Homebots," I supplied. "They manage the estate. You’ll grow accustomed to them."
She watched them retreat, fascination overtaking apprehension.
We moved deeper—through the soaring entrance hall with its vaulted ceilings and art worth fortunes, past the formal dining room that seated twenty with ease, into the heart of the house.
The main living area opened before us.
And there, waiting in a loose, welcoming semicircle, stood everyone.
Not everyone.
Mom wasn’t here—Catherine was out somewhere, doing whatever chaotic things Catherine did to ensure Paris success. Patricia and Priya stayed at the Penthouse resting from this afternoon activities but my tenacious Janet and experienced was back.
But the others.
And there were a lot of others.
The main living area was massive—had to be to accommodate this many people—but even so, it felt full. Warm. Alive with the energy of women who’d built something together.
Madison sat on the main couch in her usual position of quiet authority, dressed down in loungewear but still looking like royalty. The Queen of my empire, even when she wasn’t trying.
Charlotte beside her, she was back home, laptop on her knees because she never fully stopped working. Margaret Thompson—Charlotte’s mother—sat in the adjacent armchair, looking elegant and amused by everything happening around her.
Sofia Delgado curled up on the other end of Madison’s couch, the girl I’d saved from Jack Morrison’s abuse, still finding her confidence but getting there.
Isabella sat with Luna near the fireplace, the two of them talking quietly about something that made my innocent nurse blush, probably Isabella teasing her about her mom or something.
Amanda Wells stood near the window with Soo-Jin—Amanda who’d taken the role of Charlotte’s brilliant assistant—both of them probably discussing business even now because that’s what they did.
Anastasia Romanov sprawled elegantly in an oversized chair like she owned it, which she kind of did given how much Russian old money—Celeste Dubois, Vivienne Carter, Gabrielle, Ashby Rousseau, and Victoria—had claimed the sectional near the bar, looking like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine even in casual clothes.
Anya and Ortega sat together on the loveseat, the two of them having bonded over shared experiences I’d helped them escape from. Rebecca who had joined the harem but rarely her due to her work, had claimed a chair near the bookshelves, reading something that looked dense and academic.
Dominique sat in her usual spot with her own book, the quiet one who observed everything.
Emma and Sarah—my twin sisters—were on the floor near the fireplace, playing some kind of card game and trash-talking each other.
Reyna was at the bar—because of course she was—mixing something that probably shouldn’t be drunk before dinner. The cute bartender who was still finding her footing in this sea of impossibly beautiful, powerful women.
And Ava.
Standing separate from the others. Arms crossed. Watching.
Always watching.
Twenty-three women in one room.
Plus, Charlotte, Margaret, and Soo-Jin who weren’t mine but were family.
This was my empire.
My harem.
My family.
They all looked up when we entered.
And I watched Lila’s eyes as she took it in.
The room. The women. The casual wealth and beauty and power that filled the space like breathable atmosphere.
Her eyes actually glowed.
Not metaphorically. Literally. That specific shine that came from witnessing something you’d thought only existed in dreams.
This was real.
This was where she’d be living.
This was her family now.
Ava moved first.
She wasn’t the sentimental type. Wasn’t the kind to hug or comfort or offer empty words.
But she’d seen what Lila had experienced. Had seen the bruises, the trauma, the evidence of what had almost happened. Had witnessed that fall.
She crossed the room and pulled Lila into a hug.
Just... wrapped her arms around this fragile woman and held her like she was something precious.
Lila froze. Then melted. Then started crying again.
"You’re safe," Ava said quietly. "We protect our own."