Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Lux reached lazily for his second cup of coffee. "Anyway," he said, voice smooth, "you should all eat fast. We've got a schedule. And I know for a fact some of you still need to bathe."

He glanced meaningfully at Rava.

"Especially you."

Rava choked on her fruit. "Hey—!"

"I'm just saying," Lux murmured with a lazy smile. "You're glowing. But not in a 'ready for work' kind of way."

"I was going to shower," she muttered, stabbing a melon cube. "You distracted me."

"Such a dangerous accusation," he said innocently. "I feel wounded."

Mira rolled her eyes. "I already showered."

"Same," Naomi added, cool as ever.

"Good." Lux set his cup down. "Then the twins can do their jobs now."

Naomi froze. "Now?"

Lux arched a brow. "Yes. Now."

"Here? While we're eating?"

"Multitasking is efficient," Lux said. "And they're professionals."

The twins—Velza and Vierra—stood silently behind Lux, perfectly posed, their tools floating beside them in neat, glowing lines. Spectral brushes, scissors, compacts, enchanted mist bottles—it looked like a beauty armory summoned by a demon fashion warlock.

"We are professionals," Velza confirmed, voice warm but formal.

"We've handled queens during open warfare," Vierra added, twirling a blush brush with a glinting grin. "This is luxury."

Mira eyed the tools warily. "What about our own makeup kits? I don't want them touching my brows with glowing hellbrushes."

Sira, lounging like a smug cat with legs crossed and chin lifted, chuckled. "Don't worry about that. Just try it. No one can beat infernal cosmetics and skincare."

She glanced at Naomi, lips curling. "We were literally made to tempt."

The room got real quiet after that.

Velza moved first, floating up behind Naomi like a poised stormcloud. Vierra followed, her many hands already prepping product combinations in mid-air.

Naomi inhaled deeply. "This better not melt my face."

"Oh no, darling," Vierra purred. "We sculpt."

Mira blinked and whispered to Rava, "Why do I suddenly feel like a makeover victim on a cursed talk show?"

Rava muttered back, "Because we are."

But before the styling could fully begin, Mira frowned, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. "…Wait."

Everyone looked at her.

"I feel like we're forgetting something."

Another pause. Silence. Lux slowly raised a brow.

Naomi blinked.

Rava's eyes widened. "Oh crap."

Lux sighed, rising from his chair. "We're forgetting Fiera."

Sira winced. "She's still here?"

Rava nodded. "I think she's still asleep. I mean, she drank a lot last night."

Lux turned to the ceiling, as if mentally scanning the mansion. "Guest room, east wing. I dropped her off there."

Sira sipped her tea.

Lux ignored the jab and turned to the twins. "Velza. Vierra."

Both turned to him in perfect sync, eyes gleaming.

"Shift into humanoid forms. We have a guest upstairs who doesn't know I'm a demon, and I'd like to keep it that way. For now. She was a bit hungover last night. So we'll pretend this is just a normal household."

With a shimmer of glamoured magic, the twins transformed—horns receding, eyes dulling to a fashionable golden brown, demonic auras sealed behind aesthetic charm spells. Now they looked like celebrity stylists on a high-profile client tour. Only still too perfect. Still too… coordinated.

He turned to Lyra, his ever-efficient head maid who stood nearby, silent and sharp-eyed.

"If the car arrives, have it pull into the garage. Sign on my behalf."

Lyra bowed her head. "Yes, Master Vaelthorn."

Lux swept out of the room, hair slightly tousled like it had been finger-combed by sin itself. He moved like a man who knew exactly how much time he had, and exactly how much chaos he was walking into.

The hallway was quiet. Velvet rugs muffled his footsteps. The scent of lavender incense hung faintly in the air—clearly Lyra's doing. The door to the guest room was ajar.

He pushed it open.

And there she was.

Fiera.

Sprawled across the silken guest bed like a tragic heiress who'd lost a duel to a wine bottle. Her hair was an absolute disaster—half tangled, half stuck to her cheek. One ear twitching. One high heel still on. Her tails poked out from under the sheets like a limp comma.

She was snoring softly.

Lux leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a moment.

If it wasn't for the low, persistent hum of her phone blinking on the nightstand—he might have let her sleep. But he remembered.

Her company had a massive design deadline today.

And judging by the notification on the screen, the showroom order queue was already stacked to the ceiling.

He sighed.

"Fiera," he called gently.

No response.

"Fiera," he said again, walking in, voice a little louder. "Wake up. It's past nine. You've got about forty clients breathing down your neck."

A soft groan.

Then a dramatic whimper.

"Go away," she mumbled, curling deeper under the covers. "I'm pretty and famous. I don't do mornings."

Lux smiled faintly. "Well, your showroom does. And they're about to start a riot."

Her eyes cracked open just barely. She squinted up at him like he was a ghost. "Lux…?"

"Yep. Still hot. Still here. Still judging your life choices."

Fiera hissed and buried her face in the pillow. "Tell them I'm dead."

"You'll be dead and bankrupt if you don't move," he said. "Now up."

"Nooo…" Fiera groaned louder and yanked the blanket over her head. "I'm melting. Let me rot in peace."

Lux tugged it back. "You need to wake up."

She clung harder. "Over my dead, fabulous body."

"Tempting," he said dryly. "But hell doesn't do fashion emergencies."

"I am the emergency," she muttered.

He grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand and set it down beside her. "There's caffeine downstairs. And I may or may not have summoned two stylists to make sure you don't walk into your office looking like a hungover woodland stripper."

She groaned again. "That's... oddly specific."

He smirked. "It's a gift."

She peeked out from under the blanket, face blotchy, eyeliner still smeared. "…Do I look that bad?"

Lux tilted his head thoughtfully. "On a scale of one to 'did you wrestle a raccoon in a dumpster alley,' you're at a strong eight."