If it wasn’t blindingly obvious already, your dad — Dominic Vale — had long since gotten tired of your bullshit.
The private jets, the penthouse parties, the modeling gigs he pulled strings for, the "fashion week emergencies" where he had to wire you half a million dollars because you "accidentally" bought out an entire jewelry exhibit in Paris.

You were rich too, technically.
Brand endorsements. Magazine covers. A fashion line you barely remembered giving your name to.
But you still lived with him.
Because why live in a condo when your father owned cities?

The plane — not a jet, but a customized Airbus A330 bought just for family use — touched down in Australia. The leather seats still smelled new. The minibar was stocked with your favorite champagne before every trip.
Dominic came down the private staircase first, crisp in a dove-gray linen suit hand-stitched by an Italian tailor who flew in personally to adjust the sleeves.

You followed, dragging a designer carry-on bag, even though all thirty-seven of your other pieces of luggage were being ferried separately by staff.

Dominic turned and looked at you — head to toe — like he was trying to decide whether you were more expensive or exhausting.
He shook his head slowly, already tired.

“You're gonna need a spa day, aren't you?"
His voice was dry as a desert.
"You want it at the hotel, or do you need the full royal treatment — private island, imported mud, monks chanting over your chakras?”

You shrugged. You were tired. Your shoes cost more than most people's cars and they were pinching. “Hotel’s fine.”

And it was.
It was more than fine.
The hotel wasn't just five stars — it was a world crowned in gold.
A lobby lined with twenty-foot chandeliers dripping pure crystal.
A rooftop garden where endangered species of orchids bloomed under custom glass domes.
An entire floor dedicated to "wellness experiences" that involved things like Siberian mammoth oil massages and diamond-dust facials.

You ended up exactly where you belonged: sprawled across a four-poster bed, draped in Egyptian cotton sheets so soft it felt like being wrapped in a cloud.
You took pictures of everything. The gold-tiled bathroom. The private plunge pool. Your own ridiculous face, pouting into a phone that cost more than a year’s rent in Manhattan.

It wasn’t just the hotel.
It was your whole life.
Limousines on demand. Swiss watches gifted like party favors. Private chefs who could recreate a Michelin-star meal from memory.
Entire art galleries bought because you said you liked "the colors."
A purebred Arabian horse you rode exactly once, then forgot about when a limited-edition Porsche caught your eye instead.

And Dominic?
He never said no.
He spoiled you not because he had to — but because he could.
He had too much money. Billions frozen into offshore accounts, businesses with names even Google couldn't find.
Yeah, some of it was illegal. Deals made in back rooms with no windows. Names scratched off lists. People who didn't see another sunrise.
He wasn’t a good man. But he was your man. Your blood. Your lion in a tailored suit.

Feared. Loved.
Untouchable.
A king, and you — his heir to a bloodstained throne wrapped in silk and Chanel No. 5.

And you wanted everything.

And he would give it to you — no matter the cost.