Chapter 345: The Rivera Gambit The GPS, synced with ARIA’s digital bloodhound instincts, routed me to Holmby Hills—LA’s Platinum Fucking Triangle, where bank accounts have commas and soul-crushing envy is the local currency. Mansions glared at Mom’s Mercedes like it was a Walmart shopping cart parked at a Lamborghini convention. Every eyesore was bigger, shinier, and more fuck-you expensive than the last. Made me rethink—not whether I should’ve bought Mom’s mansion here—but whether I should just buy the entire goddamn neighborhood. Then I remembered: Oh, right. I own more cash than most of these trust fund Vikings combined. I dismissed the thought. Mostly. Soon, the gates groaned open—Rivera Family Manor. Like the rest of Holmby Hills’ overcompensation parade, it had a gate that screamed "I cost more than your kid’s college fund." But inside? Holy shit. Mom’s GLE looked like a Matchbox car abandoned in a mechanic’s wet dream. The compound was a goddamn military exhibit—vintage Ferraris lined up like soldiers, a matte-black Bugatti Chiron purring under a carport, a fucking helicopter fucking mounted near the helipad. Because nothing says "old money" quite like helicopter machinery as lawn art. The manor itself? A French Renaissance power fantasy. Château-style, light stone facade, steep slate roof jutting into the smoggy sky like the teeth of a bored god. Dormer windows glared down like judgmental aristocrats. Tall, ornate chimneys? Probably where they burn incriminating documents. Double staircase swept up to doors big enough to park a tank in front of, framed by columns straight out of a Greek god’s dick-measuring contest. Landscaping? So perfect it felt hostile. Hedges trimmed into geometric shapes. A long rectangular fountain shot water into the air, clean and sterile, reflecting a sky that hadn’t seen natural blue since Reagan was president. Place screamed old money—the kind where black-tie galas end in dead hookers, vintage cars are just background decor, and the wine cellar doubles as a panic room. I killed the engine. Instantly shifted into Eros mode—effortless dominance poured into formal wear. Shirt? Deep emerald green, sleeves rolled like I was about to disarm a bomb or ruin a marriage. Trousers? Cream, sharp enough to slice steel. Belt? Rich brown leather, holding everything together with quiet authority. Shoes? Polished brogues. Even the watch—a vintage Patek Philippe—didn’t scream wealth. It just confirmed it. Like my style was a second skin, and that skin was made of money. As I approached the grand entrance, a maid rushed out—early twenties, crisp black uniform, white apron starched stiff enough to stop a bullet. She froze. Mouth hanging open like she’d just seen God descend in a tailored suit. Her eyes raked over me—throat, shoulders, chest, waist—lingering where the green shirt hugged my biceps. Then it hit her. My Plea aura. Like dropping honey into an anthill of repressed fantasies. Her perverted thoughts flooded my mind: {Oh GOD.... Soooo HANDSOME and hot— look at those arms in that green shirt... I’d let him bend me over that Bugatti and split me open right here in the driveway. Let the gardeners watch him shove my face against the hood while he—} I gave her a slow, deliberate smile—predatory, amused. Her knees actually buckled. She caught herself on the doorframe, face flushing crimson. Poor thing. My aura was like truth serum for desire. "Morning," I said, voice deep velvet. "Rivera’s expecting me?" She nodded jerkily, unable to speak, still swimming in fantasies. As we passed a fountain: {Holy shit that water... I’d drink his bathwater right out of that fucking fountain while he choked me with his belt. Let him drown me in his cum until I’m choking on it—} She fumbled with the massive bronze handles, shoving one door open with a metallic groan. She led me inside—the place was a fucking French Renaissance nightmare made real. Inside? Opulence that felt aggressive. Marble floors so polished you could see your own arrogance reflected. A crystal chandelier the size of a small UFO dripping light onto Persian rugs worth more than her life insurance. Antiques everywhere—vases, sculptures, suits of armor probably looted from European castles. The air smelled like money, lemon polish, and faint fear. I gave her a slow, amused smile. She shivered. I felt a flicker of pity. She was starved. These fantasies—dirty, beautiful, fucking vivid—swirled around me like perfume. I wouldn’t mind. She was no less stunning than Lea or Sofia—just softer, mature, eyes holding a quiet hunger. Fate dealt her different cards. Down the longest hallway in history—marble floors polished to mirrors, crystal chandeliers dripping light. Antiques glared from every corner. She walked ahead, hips swaying subtly in her uniform, fingers trembling on the doorframe she almost missed. Outside the office: {Oh, fuck those big wooden doors... I’d let him pin me against them naked while he bites bruises into my thighs. Let the Empress hear me scream his name while he ruins my cunt on the carved wood—} ARIA’s voice snapped into my skull: "Master. You’ve passed the target room. Three meters east." "Uh, sorry... are you sure we’re not..." I started. {SHIT—oh god he noticed I’m staring at his crotch again—fuck his pants are so tight I can see the outline of—} She snapped back to reality, face flushing crimson. "My apologies, sir! The office is right here—" I waved her off. "It’s fine. Happens more than you’d think." Because I’m Eros Velmior Desiderion, you tight-kneed little goddess. She opened the doors. Inside? Obscene wealth with a side of fuck you. High ceilings, arched windows spilling gold light. Walls lined in dark walnut shelves holding show-off books—first editions, gold-embossed, probably never fucking read. A massive antique desk, French design, spotless except for crystal pen holder and fresh lilies perfuming the air like floral domination. Behind it? An oil portrait of the Empress—regal, pearls glinting, eyes daring you to underestimate her. Art? Klimt’s golden swirls on one wall. Across from it? A modern marble sculpture of a woman fractured and reassembled. Because even in art, this family speaks in metaphors about breaking things. To the right? Velvet sofas in deep emerald. Glass table. Decanter of cognac glowing amber. I sank into one, velvet cool against my skin. File set aside. No hurry. The room breathed her power—and welcomed mine like a lover. The maid lingered at the door, eyes locked on me: {Oh god sitting there like a king... I’d crawl under that table right now and unzip those cream trousers with my teeth. Let him fuck my throat while the Empress walks in. I’d choke on his cum right here on the Persian rug and thank him for it—} I met her gaze. Held it. She gasped, nipples hardening visibly beneath her apron. Poor little goddess. Drowning. Then she left. And the room fell silent—except for my pulse. But as I settled into the emerald velvet, my mind wasn’t on the maid’s fantasies. It was on strategy. Cold, calculated, chess-master-level strategy. Today wasn’t just about the immediate gifts I’d brought—the evidence clearing Rivera, the dropped lawsuits, the proof of Antonio’s betrayal. Those were the foundation, the trust-building exercises. What I really needed was to demonstrate capability without making promises I’d have to deliver immediately. The package I’d been planning to offer? That was future currency. Something to promise after this alliance proved its value, after both sides had tested the waters and found them profitable. But promising future technology to an old-money empress who’d heard a thousand tech pitches? That would sound like every other startup founder who’d ever walked through those doors. No. I needed demonstration, not promises. Because the truth was, I had so much more I could offer Rivera in the future—technologies decades ahead of anything they could imagine, strategic advantages that would make them untouchable in the media landscape, capabilities that would reshape how information flowed through society. But I didn’t want to use words. I wanted to show her what partnership with me actually meant. The real negotiation was about to begin. And I had every intention of winning it.