Meeting him for the first time in daylight since then in his penthouse and calling her for breakfast.

He wasn’t surprised that Nastya was with Victoria. Those two were inseparable and they’d had been together since Nastya arrived at the island yesterday night.

The moment her family touched down, Nastya had joined everyone in the club, had become immediate fixtures in the orbit of whatever Victoria was involved in.

But that wasn’t even interesting compared to what had happened yesterday.

"Good morning," Phei said simply. Set the tray down. Left before awkwardness could crystallize into something more permanent. Victoria and Nastya would figure out how to navigate this.

They were intelligent enough for that.

Eventually Phei took the last trolley toward his bedroom where his women were waiting.

They were still asleep.

Delilah was even at the foot of the bed, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around a second pillow because apparently she’d woken at some point and decided that having something to hold was better than the cold sheets.

They’d crashed hard.

He set the trays down at the foot of the bed.

The sound was soft — just the gentle settling of silver and ceramic — but it was enough. Delilah stirred first.

Her eyes fluttered open like she’d been waiting for permission, like some part of her was always listening for him even while unconscious. She blinked at him and blinked again.

"Hi," she whispered. Like it was a secret.

He crossed to her side of the bed and leaned down and kissed her forehead.

She made a small sound in her throat — not words, just acknowledgment, just the physical equivalent of I’m happy you’re here.

The movement woke Maddie.

She sat up. Saw the tray. Her entire face transformed.

"BREAKFAST IN BED!" she shrieked, and there went the careful quiet because Maddie didn’t do quiet when food was involved and also because Maddie didn’t do anything at half volume.

Sierra’s eyes opened. Patricia stirred. Valentina lifted her head from the pillow with slow, deliberate grace.

Patricia sat up.

Her hair was a disaster — pillow-creased, chaotic, falling across one shoulder in a dark tangle that made her look younger and less polished than her usual presentation.

She looked at Phei and there was something in her face — something warm and slightly overwhelmed — that made his chest feel tight.

She didn’t say anything; she just looked at him and held the eye contact for a beat that felt like it meant something.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She came, still tangled in the sheet and half-asleep, moving with the slow careful deliberation of a woman who wasn’t quite sure how to move her own body yet.

He caught her when she reached the edge of the bed, pulled her close, and kissed her. Not a performance kiss. A real one. The kind that said good morning and I was thinking about you while I was cooking.

Her hand came up — settled against his bare chest, fingers curling like she was testing whether he was real. Her kiss softened. Deepened. When he pulled back she was awake now. Fully. And looking at him like he’d just hung the moon.

"Morning," she said. Her voice was rough from sleep; rough and real and completely his.

"Morning."

He turned back to the tray. Began setting up the plates — didn’t hand them down like they were being served by hotel staff, but placed them on the bed where they could eat properly, where the whole thing felt intimate instead of transactional.

Fruit for Sierra — he knew she preferred the fresh over the heavy. Eggs and toast for Valentina because she was precise about her nutrition and liked things that looked elegant on the plate.

Both for Patricia because she was still learning what she actually wanted versus what she thought she should want.

Maddie got everything.

Maddie saw food the way most people saw oxygen and as a fundamental requirement for continued existence. She attacked the plate with the enthusiasm like she’d been raised on deprivation and was determined never to experience it again.

Delilah ate slowly. Carefully. Like she was tasting every bite and the simple act of being fed breakfast by Phei was some kind of profound experience her body was still processing.

She looked at him between bites. Just — looked like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

He settled on the edge of the bed, shirtless, barefoot, watching them eat.

"How are you all feeling?" he asked casually.

Valentina raised one eyebrow. "Strategically or emotionally?"

"Either. Both?"

"Strategically," she said, with the precision of a woman who understood that vulnerability was a weapon and honesty was negotiation, "I’m sore in places I didn’t know could be sore. Emotionally, I’m processing the fact that you can apparently make me forget my own name with nothing but your mouth and your hands, which is both terrifying and exactly what I signed up for."

She paused and took a sip of her drink.

"I’m going to need all the coffee you can find," Valentina said, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Because I’m planning to keep you busy all this morning, and I’m going to need the caffeine. Can’t have you thinking I’m going to let you rest after last night."

Patricia made a small sound — not quite a laugh.

Maddie had her mouth full of egg so she just gave him a thumbs up and an exaggerated expression of bliss that somehow managed to convey you are a god among men and also you owe me seven more orgasms.

Sierra ate quietly but she kept looking at him:

Every few bites, her eyes would find his and hold for a beat that was longer than necessary, and in that beat was gratitude, trust and something like you took me apart and put me back together and I’m still here and I chose to be still here.

Delilah reached over and grabbed his hand.

Just grabbed it. Put it against her chest, right over her heart with her eyes were shining.

"Thank you," she whispered.

For what, she didn’t specify. For breakfast. For last night. For choosing her. For making her feel like she belonged here:

’All of the above.’

He squeezed her hand gently.

"You’re welcome, Del."

The room was warm. Golden light filtered through the heavy curtains. Five women — his women, fully and completely his — were eating breakfast in his bed. Patricia was leaning against his shoulder now, half-asleep again, her hand resting on his thigh. Maddie was telling some convoluted story about something that had happened at the club that nobody was really listening to because the sound of her voice was enough.

Sierra was watching him and Valentina was calculating something with the precision of a woman already planning how to occupy his entire morning. Delilah was holding his hand like she might never let go.

This was his life now.

This — the penthouse, the women, the slow quiet morning after everything had finally clicked into place — this was what he’d been fighting for without even knowing he was fighting for it.

"Eat," Patricia mumbled against his shoulder. "You cooked. You should eat."

He picked up a plate and started eating. The eggs were still warm. The fruit was cold and fresh. The toast was crispy at the edges, soft inside. He’d done a good job.

But better than the taste was watching them eat. Better was the quiet satisfaction of having gotten this right. Of having moved his women into his space. Of having claimed every corner of this penthouse and filled it with people who wanted to be here, who had chosen to be here, who woke up in his bed and looked at him like he’d built this entire world just for them.

Which, he realized with a small internal laugh, he kind of had.

The penthouse was huge. The kitchen was excessive. The suite was ridiculous. And all of it — every square metre, every luxury, every carefully orchestrated detail — was just the external architecture of what he’d actually built.

A home for his women:

A place where they could exist without pretense. Without hierarchy beyond the one they’d all agreed to. Without apology.

Patricia’s breathing had evened out. She was asleep against his shoulder, her hand still resting on his thigh. Maddie was telling her increasingly incoherent story to absolutely nobody. Sierra was watching him still. Valentina was planning something lustful — he could almost see the strings moving behind her eyes. Delilah was eating slowly, savoring, still holding his hand.

He looked at each of them.

’Mine.’

Not possessive. Not ownership. Just fact: The simple, undeniable fact that he belonged to them exactly as much as they belonged to him, and the penthouse was just the house that held that belonging while they figured out what to do with it next.

"Hayashi is going to send up fresh coffee in a few minutes," he said quietly.

"Good," Valentina said. "I’m going to need it."

"Why?" Sierra asked.

Valentina smiled. A small, private, completely devastating smile.

"Because, like it said, I’m planning to keep him busy all morning, and I’m going to need the caffeine."

Maddie cheered. Actually cheered. Threw her arms in the air like someone had just announced her birthday.

Phei closed his eyes.

Let their voices wash over him.

Let the warmth of the penthouse, the smell of breakfast, the weight of Patricia against his shoulder, the feeling of Delilah’s hand in his — let all of it settle into him like proof that he’d finally gotten something right.