NOVEL NEXT Chapter 304: Pink Milk
The Maybach's door parted like the curtains on my personal stage, and we stepped onto Lincoln Road like gods descending to bless the mortals. Which, considering ARIA was currently finger-banging every security system and AI server in a hundred-mile radius on my command? We were the city.
Lincoln Road wasn't just a street; it was my fucking red carpet.
Charlotte bailed, obviously. Probably drowning in a sea of damage control calls she couldn't solve and grief croissants she definitely could. Margaret stayed back, muttering about "documents" like a bad actress in a lifetime movie.
Translation? She was still pissing herself after the whole kidnapping ordeal but she wouldn't admit.
Pride's a hell of a drug, sunshine. Mix it with trauma and whatever designer benzos she's popping, and you get a masterclass in denial. Adorable, like watching a toddler try to operate a bulldozer.
So, it was just the chosen four heading out for Madison's idea of "retail therapy." Translation: playing dress-up with Soo-jin in our personal, fucked-up Disney reboot where I collect all the princesses, and they somehow manage not to claw each other's eyes out.
Yet.
I went for 'Understated Sex God Meets Dark Knight.' Black jeans so perfectly tailored.
Boots adding lethal inches to an already imposing frame. A button-down that me look like a casual millionaire and the cape. Black silk, draped like a fucking prophecy. The half-mask? Cherry on top. Necessary? Sweetheart, I am the reason peacocks strut. Sometimes you gotta lean into the aesthetic of being a walking aphrodisiac wrapped in a power fantasy.
Madison clung to my arm, a anchor in the current of bodies. Her designer jeans whispered of old money, the crop top a deliberate frame for her toned midriff and the sculpted curves that drew glances like gravity. She wore her beauty intentionally, a calculated display of confidence and privilege.
Amanda, however, moved like sunlight—unassuming and unguarded. Her gray sweatpants were soft, lived-in; the unzipped hoodie simply practical after a workout. Yet the effect was arresting. The sports bra beneath wasn't armor, but a necessity, holding the soft, generous weight of her breasts with an ease that seemed almost accidental.
Her exposed stomach wasn't flaunted; it was just there—smooth, lightly defined, a testament to simple strength. She moved with an unconscious grace, hips swaying slightly in the rhythm of her stride, utterly oblivious to the way men stalled mid-step, conversations fizzling into silence.
She wasn't performing; her sensuality was a quiet radiance, as natural as sunlight on skin, turning heads without a single conscious command. The street didn't gape; it simply stopped, caught in the warm, effortless gravity of her presence.
Soo-Jin flowed beside us like a quiet stream.
Eighteen, gorgeous in that effortless K-dream way that makes actual idols weep into their designer ramen. Black hair like a liquid waterfall, highlighting cheeks so perfectly sculpted they should be in the Louvre.
Cute.
Those little cheeks you just wanted to… well, anyway.
Her eyes, dark and intelligent, held depths that spoke of survival, yet they widened now with a quiet wonder, as if taking in the world through new eyes. Her lips, painted a soft, daring red, were the single bold stroke on a canvas of innocence—not a seduction, but a hint of the woman emerging.
Tall and slender, she moved with a hesitant elegance, a coltish grace in her oversized blue sweatshirt and tiny black skirt. The Korean style clothes swamped her frame, attempting to obscure the quiet magnetism that radiated not from curves, but from her—a purity so profound it felt fragile, yet drew the eye with a gentle, insistent pull.
She wasn't hiding; she simply was, and her unadorned presence was more captivating than any calculated display.
The city watched. Some saw the opulence, some the danger hidden beneath designer labels. But many, like moths to twin flames, found their gaze caught on the impossible warmth of Amanda's unconscious grace and the fragile, luminous innocence of Soo-Jin—two forces of nature, oblivious to the quiet storm they created simply by existing.
"First stop," Madison announced, stabbing her finger at a boutique so expensive it probably made poverty just by existing. She strutted like a fashion dictator about to draft a civilian into couture boot camp. "We're getting Soo-Jin a complete wardrobe upgrade."
Amanda, ever the secretary of practicality — which in her case meant backhanded commentary disguised as kindness — chimed in: "And a phone. Because girl needs to officially join the modern age."
Three blocks into this estrogen-powered crusade, I made a tactical pit stop at a convenience store. Rookie mistake. They came out with designer visions in their heads; I came out with my own trophy.
Strawberry milk. In a carton. With a straw.
The silence could have headlined a funeral.
Madison's face froze, her perfectly curated superiority mask cracking as if I'd just confessed I moonlighted as a mall Santa. Amanda's jaw unhinged like she was auditioning for a dental commercial. Soo-Jin just tilted her head — wide-eyed, confused, still trying to decode the strange customs of her new cult leader.
"Are you serious?" Madison finally asked, voice like a judge ready to deliver a death sentence.
"What?" I asked, punctuating my defense with a long, smug sip.
"You're dressed like some dark prince of Miami, walking around with three women who could bankrupt a fashion magazine just by existing, and you're drinking… strawberry milk?" Amanda was already laughing, and not in the polite way.
"From a carton," Madison added coldly. "With a straw. Like a preschooler."
"Excuse you," I said, raising the carton with the same dignity men usually reserved for raising flags in war. "This is a nutritionally sound beverage. Strawberries are fruit. Milk is dairy. Together, they form a perfectly balanced wellness solution."
Amanda bent double, gasping. "Wellness solution? Oh my God—He's actually defending it like it's part of his empire strategy."
"Because it is," I said smoothly. "Strawberries are fruit. Milk is dairy. Together, they form a nutritionally balanced refreshment engineered for both physical performance and emotional stability. Calcium for bones. Antioxidants for… antioxidizing. Flavor for morale. It's wellness science. Which, if you had a brain cell dedicated to science, you'd know improves mental health. This is not childish. This is advanced self-care."
"It has calcium for bone density," I continued, unwavering, "antioxidants for… antioxidizing, and flavor for mood elevation.
Soo-Jin's lips quirked. "In Korea, we would say… you have very innocent taste for someone who looks like dark prince."
"Innocent?" I took another long, slow pull, deliberately letting the straw gurgle at the bottom. "There's nothing innocent about optimizing my nutritional intake while maximizing palatability. That's called strategic consumption. Very adult."
Madison blinked at me like I'd sprouted horns. "Strategic consumption is… pink milk through a straw while wearing a cape.""
"The cape is aesthetic," I corrected. "The milk is sustenance. Different categories of my overall presentation strategy. Try to keep up."
Amanda was wheezing against a wall now. "Presentation strategy! He's got a fucking philosophy for his juice box!"
"It's not a juice box," I corrected with the tone of a professor correcting a slow student. "It's a milk carton. And the straw is straight, not bendy. Bendy straws are for toddlers. This is professional-grade drinkware."
"Professional-grade," Soo-Jin repeated shyly, clearly delighted by this entire conversation. "You Americans are very... creative with words."
I crushed the empty carton, finishing with one final, triumphant slurp. "Look. When you can benchpress a small car and bankroll a minor country, you get to drink whatever the hell you want. Strawberry milk is delicious, and I'm secure enough in my masculinity to enjoy flavored dairy products without explanation."
"He just said flavored dairy products again," Madison whispered to Amanda, as if repeating it out loud would make it less dignified. "As if that makes it more adult."
"Next you'll tell us chocolate milk is a sophisticated cocoa-based calcium supplement," Amanda fired back.
"Don't give me ideas," I warned, tossing the empty carton in a nearby trash bin with perfect accuracy. "I've got a whole mental catalog of beverages that could use better marketing."
Cue five minutes of uninterrupted roasting. They circled me like hyenas at a petting zoo, tearing into my strawberry milk habit like it was the weakest link in my empire. And sure, I could have defended myself — but why bother? I was strutting through Miami flanked by three gorgeous women, sipping pink nectar like a smug vampire prince while my AI assistant was probably destabilizing a government somewhere. Priorities.
By the fourth store, we'd accumulated enough shopping bags to legally qualify as a pop-up shop. Guess who carried most of them? Right — yours truly. I looked like a demigod moonlighting as a pack mule. Soo-Jin tried to grab more bags, bless her, but I waved her off.
"I still can't believe you made us wait while you finished your kiddie drink," Madison said, adjusting one of the bags I was carrying.
"Quality refreshment takes time," I replied, shifting the weight of several shopping bags while we walked. "You can't rush perfection."
"I can carry more," she insisted, earnest eyes peeking up at me. "You already do too much."
"Nah, I've got it," I said, even as my biceps screamed treason. "This is functional strength training. Very efficient."
Amanda snorted. "Functional strength training. Everything with you has a TED Talk attached."
"Enhanced intelligence plus natural charm," I said smoothly. "Optimization is a lifestyle."
Madison rolled her eyes, but let's be real: she loved having front-row tickets to The Me Show. Amanda played the sarcastic commentator, Soo-Jin the wide-eyed rookie adjusting to luxury at light speed, and me? Obviously the lead — tragic antihero with a milk problem, still inexplicably magnetic.
They kept laughing, and I let them. Because honestly? Strolling down Miami's shopping district, arms overloaded with designer bags, getting roasted alive for my beverage choices while three stunning women flanked me — this was peak normalcy I never thought I'd taste.
Life was ridiculous. Life was sharp. Life was mine.
Even if my signature drink preference technically belonged in an elementary school cafeteria.