Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Varakan smirked, his voice a low rumble. "They love a killer. Always have."

"Not just love," Malris corrected. "They fear him. The footage of him against Lord Vyrak spreads like rot. Many believe he almost killed the Pride Lord outright. The only reason it ended as it did was Lady Sira's finishing strike."

Lucaris' face darkened, but his smirk remained fixed. "My daughter always had timing."

Kaelmor's grin sharpened. "And ambition."

Malris went on, her tone like iron cutting through velvet. "The royals talk as well. Not only about his strength—but about his contracts. They whisper about him as if he's become something between myth and contagion. A hell CFO who can balance ledgers with Heaven and Hell both? That… frightens them. Not to mention he could kill."

Varakan chuckled, scarred knuckles drumming the table. "Frightens? No. It enrages. Which is why that bounty swelled to such a delicious number."

Malris's eyes narrowed. "And yet he refuses protection. He believes he can stand against both realms with nothing but his contracts and his wit."

Kaelmor's smile twisted into something almost reverent. "Perhaps he can. Perhaps he's already doing so."

The table fell into a rare moment of quiet consideration.

Then Lucaris broke it, voice dripping disdain. "Or perhaps he burns, and the rest of us pick through the ashes." His gaze flicked toward Zavros again, sharp as a dagger. "Tell me. If that happens—if your miracle dies screaming—will you mourn him? Or will you just write it off as bad debt?"

Zavros didn't answer. Not yet. His jaw flexed, aura dim but simmering.

Malris bowed her head slightly. "My lords. I'll have a full report within the week. But make no mistake—the infernal economy is stable only because Lux Vaelthorn keeps it breathing. Remove him, and we face collapse. Which makes this bounty not just an insult. It's a threat to all of us."

The chamber stirred. Even Kaelmor's grin faltered, just slightly.

And Zavros? He sat in silence, the weight of centuries pressing down on him, realizing too late what his negligence had grown into… not just a son, but a storm.

The chamber burned with it. Not literal fire—though the scent of ozone and molten metal clung to the air—but with pressure, with judgment. Even among lords, silence was weakness. Silence was blood in the water.

Then, suddenly, Zavros stood. His aura rippled across the obsidian floor, fracturing the reflections of the other lords. His chair groaned in protest, shoved back like it had been cast aside in disgust.

"I need to go," he said.

Kaelmor's grin widened, laughter fizzing in his throat. "Go where? To the mortal realm? To meet him?" His pitch shifted, playful and cruel. "You know you can't. The Greed seat cannot be left empty. That is the law. That is a chain."

Lucaris lounged deeper in his throne, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. "He's right. We are lords. One of us—or our bloodline—must remain in Hell. That's the rule we bled into the bones of this place. You leave, Zavros, and your entire dominion fractures. And your son? He'll despise you for that weakness too."

"I need to talk to him," Zavros said, voice lower now, almost ragged.

Varakan chuckled, his gravel-deep voice shaking the glass along the chamber walls. "Then wait. He is on vacation. Do what you've always done, Zavros. Let it be. Let him bleed and learn. He's stubborn enough to survive."

Lucaris' smirk sharpened, every word dipped in venom. "What is it you want to say? Sorry? Don't you think it's a little late for apologies?" He leaned forward, his hair catching the firelight. "Perhaps that's why he shoved the elevator doors in your face while holding my daughter. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to risk you leaving him with your responsibilities again."

Zavros' jaw clenched. His aura flickered, not with Greed's usual polished brilliance, but with raw fury. His teeth ground together. His fists tightened.

"Lucaris," he growled. "Stop poking at me."

Lucaris scoffed, almost laughing. "Oh, look. Now he's mad. Again."

The chamber shifted. A crackle of tension. Even Kaelmor leaned in, amused.

Malris, however, broke the moment with a calm, professional tone. "With respect, my lords—the prince looks fine. Better than fine. He's stable, calculating, and effective. He deserves this vacation. Let him breathe."

Zavros turned sharply toward her, eyes burning, voice raw. "I just want to talk—"

Kaelmor cut him off, his voice slipping into a static drawl that hummed across the chamber. "Then call him."

The words hung like a guillotine. Simple. Sharp. Impossible.

Zavros hesitated. His pride and his guilt twisted in the same space. Finally, he said, softer now, "I will."

He turned on his heel, his cloak flaring behind him as he moved toward the chamber doors. Each step was heavy, not with arrogance, but with something foreign—hesitation.

But before he reached the midpoint of the hall, Kaelmor's voice slid in behind him, electric, unrelenting.

"Zavros."

The Lord of Greed paused.

Kaelmor's smile, smooth and cruel, echoed through the chamber. "There are some things you cannot change. The damage is done. But remember this—" He leaned forward, his grin stretching too wide. "Gold can be melted, reforged, reshaped… but cracks? Cracks never truly vanish. They shine brighter than the rest of the metal. Sometimes that brilliance saves. Sometimes it breaks. Which will it be for your son, I wonder?"

The chamber hummed.

Varakan chuckled low.

Lucaris arched a brow, almost satisfied.

Malris looked away, hiding the faintest flicker of pity.

And Zavros? He walked on, jaw tight, heart heavier than gold, carrying the echo of Kaelmor's words like chains he couldn't shake.

Lux. His son. His heir.

He remembered the boy with ink-stained fingers, hunched over ledgers taller than he was, eyes burning with numbers instead of fire.

He remembered dismissing that hunger as childish obsession, not realizing it was a weapon sharper than any blade.

He remembered the postcards—the neat script, the clipped requests, the desperate lines that he never answered. Lux had begged. Begged him to come back. To guide. Zavros thought ignoring him would forge steel from desperation, that silence would temper him.

Instead, it had carved a man who no longer needed him. A man who built thrones from contracts and turned enemies into assets. A son who stared at him not with love, but with calculation.

Zavros' fists clenched. Lux was more than miracle now. More than burden. He was proof. Proof that neglect had consequences… and that brilliance could bloom without a father's shadow.

And for the first time in centuries, Zavros wondered if he had lost his son long before today.