Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Lux raised both palms in mock innocence, walking backward as if surrendering to a traffic warden. "That was one time. I was curious if it worked like mortal holy water."

The angel didn't react. Not even a blink. Pure professional pain tolerance.

"No charming any female angels. No male angels either. No flirty metaphors about law, light, balance, or chakras. Please just… sit. Be still. Pretend to be normal."

Lux grinned, full teeth, perfect. "Define normal."

"I won't," the angel said flatly. Then turned with all the stiffness of someone who had once read a book on posture and never recovered.

They walked.

Past the lobby.

Down a corridor so aggressively polished, it made Lux blink twice. The air smelled like purity and filtered ambition. Floating orbs of holy light hovered overhead like bored surveillance drones. Carved murals lined the walls—heroic angels with chins tilted upward, wings unfurled, swords raised. More gold than sense.

"Keep moving," the receptionist said coldly, not even looking over his shoulder.

Lux trailed a finger down one wall relief. "You guys still love your propaganda, huh? Where's the mural of the Failed Treaty of Era 88? Or the time the Arch-judge tripped over his own ego and face-planted on the Crystal Steps?"

The receptionist didn't reply.

Professional.

They reached the pearlescent double doors—no knobs, no hinges, no sound—just grace and disdain dressed up in marble.

The angel waved a hand. The doors opened with a whisper.

The chamber beyond looked exactly how you'd expect someone like Celestaria to decorate. Tasteful. Soft. Imperial with a blush of femininity. High vaulted ceiling, gold-veined curtains pulled wide to reveal an unreal sky, and couches in cream and warm white arranged around a low crystal table.

At the center, refreshments. Tea. Wing-shaped sugar cubes. Scones. Finger sandwiches cut too precisely. Celestial cucumber, probably. The food equivalent of a polite handshake.

Lux muttered, "Yeah… definitely not poisoned," and stepped in.

"She'll arrive shortly," the angel said. "Please behave."

"I'm a picture of restraint."

"Mm. Sure," came the dry reply before the doors hissed closed behind him.

Lux exhaled. Alone now.

Well—sort of. The wards were humming softly. Definitely watching. Definitely listening. Some of them probably thinking judgmental thoughts.

He wandered toward the tea set and plucked a sugar cube. Popped it in his mouth. Immediately regretted it.

Sweet.

Too sweet.

He poured himself a cup anyway. No milk. Just holy leaf brew. Smelled like purified lavender and discipline. He sat, crossed one leg, and sipped. Winced. Sipped again.

'Behave,' he told himself.

'You're in the Upper Realm. Celestaria's territory. She likes you. Mostly.'

Still. He couldn't access his System here. Not without raising red flags. Everything on this floor would be crawling with ward tracers and reputation auditors. And the thing was—he could break them. But breaking wasn't the point. Today wasn't about power.

It was about presence.

So, he waited.

Sipped tea. Nibbled a pastry. Made a face like someone being forced to diet.

And yeah. He waited more.

Lux, the Crown Prince of Contracts, the Incubus CFO of Hell, was not good at waiting.

Five minutes in, his fingers started tapping against the armrest.

Ten minutes in, he was eyeing the wall frescoes and categorizing them by year of creation. Fifteen?

He stood.

Stretched.

Rolled his neck.

Strolled.

Still in the room. Still behaving. Technically.

The fountain in the corner trickled quietly. Elegant. Gentle. Judgmental. The water sparkled like it had moral superiority.

Lux walked past it slowly. Hands behind his back like a schoolboy on probation.

"No touching," he whispered mockingly. "No charming the water."

And then—he saw it. Tucked at the far side of the chamber.

A piano.

Old. Real. Grand. Not summoned. Not forged. Just… crafted. Oak and silver, keys slightly dulled by age, cover half-lifted like it had been played and forgotten.

Lux paused.

He hadn't played in years.

Not since Demon Academy, where every royal-born had to learn at least one instrument or vocal skill. Public performance wasn't just a hobby—it was political. Aura control. Charm refinement. Grace under pressure.

He'd hated it.

Until he hadn't.

Until he realized music was another kind of power. Not the kind that destroyed—but the kind that unveiled. Like peeling emotion from a soul with a melody instead of a scalpel.

He glanced around.

Still alone.

Still behaving.

He approached the piano and brushed his fingertips across the polished surface.

Cool. Smooth. Dustless.

He looked up. "If you're watching," he murmured, "I'm still not touching the damn fountain."

And then—he sat.

Lux rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and placed both hands on the keys.

They fit perfectly. Like they remembered him.

He let the first few notes spill softly. A descending run. Gentle. Curious. Testing the acoustics.

The sound shimmered through the chamber like something sacred had sighed.

He played more. A slow, winding melody. One he barely remembered composing in his youth. A nocturne for a midnight ball he'd skipped.

His fingers moved lazily. Casually. A little uneven at first—but then smoother. Stronger.

Emotion crept into the keys—longing, indulgence, a little arrogance. Lux. Always Lux. Dressed in white, smiling like sin, playing like Heaven owed him a record deal.

And for a moment…

The room didn't feel like Celestaria's anymore.

It felt like his.

He closed his eyes and let it flow.

His fingers drifted, conjuring warmth in the chords, darker tension in the bass line, and little playful staccatos dancing at the edge.

And he felt it.

The eyes.

Somewhere, someone was watching now.

Maybe the receptionist.

Maybe Celestaria herself.

Maybe angels who didn't recognize him because his demonic aura was gone and his eyes were blue.

He didn't care.

The final note lingered. Hung like perfume in the air. Soft. Sweet. A little tragic.

Then silence.

Lux lifted his hands.

Sat back.

And smiled.

"Still got it," he said softly to no one.

No applause.

No reaction.

Not yet.

But then—

A slow clap.

From behind.

The door hadn't opened. No footstep had echoed.

But a new presence filled the chamber like sunlight through clouds.

And a familiar voice, warm and amused, said.

"I see someone hasn't changed."