Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation-Chapter 653: The Fake [Part 1]

Chapter 653 – The Fake [Part 1]

Vincent Albrecht stood barefoot on the marble balcony of the Penthouse Suite, steam still rising from his damp collarbones. He wore nothing but a white hotel robe, loosely tied, the belt hanging uneven as if he hadn’t bothered to knot it properly. His skin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sandalwood soap, one of the complimentary spa ones he usually didn’t touch, but for some reason, he used today. Maybe to feel fresher. Cleaner. Different.

Behind him, the suite was a mess.

Not like chaos. Not like after a party. No broken glass, no spilled wine. Just... lived in. His kind of lived in.

The kind where the bed’s silk sheets were half on the floor, twisted around a tangle of pillows and crumpled lingerie. A red lace bra lay on the marble tile like a flag of surrender, one strap hanging limply near a discarded pink thong that wasn’t even the same size. Two girls. Neither of them still here.

They left about twenty minutes ago.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Vincent hadn’t stopped them.

He lifted the crystal wine glass to his lips, swirling the crimson liquid like it would grant him clarity, but the taste just lingered bitter on his tongue. The aftertaste of sour grapes and faint regret.

Behind him, the soft click of the bathroom light turning off echoed.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t need to.

The room was cold now. Quiet. Too quiet.

His eyes lingered on the skyline. Bright towers. Billboards. Somewhere below, this world kept moving. But up here? It felt paused.

Paused between indulgence and consequence.

He took another sip. Then set the glass down on the iron rail with a soft clink.

His reflection flickered in the tall glass panes, wet hair pushed back, shadows under his eyes, the robe loose enough to show his chest. He looked good. He always looked good.

But even he could admit it... he didn’t look like Lux.

He looked like someone pretending to be Lux.

That used to be enough.

It still was, for most.

They didn’t look too closely. People never did. As long as the profile matched, the smile came easy, the voice sounded smooth, people believed what they wanted to believe.

Especially in bed.

Except lately... even that wasn’t working.

His jaw tightened.

The girls’ voices still echoed in his head. Not loud, but sharp. Tiny cuts.

"That’s all? Not even ten seconds and you came?"

"I thought you were better than this..."

"I haven’t even had my orgasm, c’mon give me more—"

"Just one round? You’re no fun."

Vincent exhaled, slow and shaky. His fingers curled against the balcony rail.

He’d taken Viagra, for god’s sake. That little blue demon had become part of his prep kit. Used to be once in a while. Now? Every time. He glanced at the trash bin near the minibar, an empty bottle sat there, the cap off, plastic label peeled back by anxious fingers.

Still wasn’t enough.

He used to be able to handle three girls back to back. Now? He barely lasted one. Or half. Hell, sometimes he just faked it to get them off him.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even physical anymore. It was... exhaustion.

Like his body had figured out this wasn’t real and decided to clock out early.

Still, he didn’t dare admit that out loud.

Instead, he muttered under his breath, "At least I proved it."

He picked the glass back up, downing the rest in one gulp. The wine hit his throat like heat, but it didn’t make him feel better. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"At least I’m not cursed."

That’s what they said, right? The rumors. That Vincent Albrecht had been cursed by some old flame.

Bullshit.

He could perform. Sometimes. With enough prep. With enough drink. With enough lies.

He wasn’t cursed.

He was just tired of living up to their expectations.

His whole life, people had seen him as the nice one. The good one. Polite. Respectable. Mannered. Charming in a safe way. The kind of man you brought to your parents and your fundraising events. Not the kind you screamed for at midnight in a five star hotel suite.

And that was the problem.

He wasn’t bad enough.

He wasn’t dangerous. Or dark. Or even remotely thrilling once you got past his money.

He was dependable.

Boring.

So yeah, he borrowed Lux Vaelthorn’s name.

Lux wasn’t boring.

Lux was the kind of guy women whispered about. The kind you feared and fantasized about in the same breath. The one who could walk into a room and make people forget who they were. He had edge. He had mystery. He had sin.

And they didn’t even look that different. Not really.

Same height. Same hair color, if Vincent styled it right and used the sea salt spray. Similar build, if he wore a tighter shirt and kept his chin tilted at the right angle. Sure, Lux had that stupid smug aura, but Vincent had studied it. Practiced it in the mirror. Copied it frame for frame.

All it took was the right timing.

The right perfume.

The right smirk.

He walked the edge for a week.

And it worked.

He got invited to the best lounges. Got his drinks comped. Got access to women who once ghosted his real name but now crawled into his lap when he introduced himself with the right tone.

He had proof it worked.

Except now...

Now he was on borrowed time.

Vincent walked back inside the room. His robe flared behind his knees as he moved, his bare feet quiet against the tile. He sat on the bed, not on the messed-up side, but the corner that hadn’t been touched. His phone buzzed.

He reached for it.

Group chat. A few familiar numbers. Same modeling agency crowd. Same trust fund babies who shared fake scandal videos like wine lists.

One image stood out.

A candid shot.

Lux Vaelthorn. The Lux Vaelthorn.

Walking hand in hand with Elyndra Vireleth.