Lust System: I will Cuck Everyone

Morning light cut across the Peninsula penthouse. Rick stood at the glass with a yawn and a black t-shirt in one hand, looking down at a city that still thought it knew who owned its kitchens.

"Summit’s almost here," he said to the skyline. "No tainted fish. No surprises. No second chances."

He skipped the million-dollar suits hanging in the wardrobe, pulled on jeans, and took the private elevator down. The garage was cool and empty except for the Ducati. He swung a leg over, turned the key, and the V4 woke up like it had been waiting all night.

Ten minutes of morning traffic later he rolled up to the Neptune Platinum Market. Fifty million dollars of glass, ice, and imported everything. Now legally his. Trucks backed into the bays in a constant line. Wagyu. Truffles. Tuna that cost more than cars. Staff in white coats moved like the building had a pulse.

Rick parked on the curb and walked in like he was checking a fridge.

Zhou met him before the second set of doors. New GM. Sweating already. The last one had been fired during the Julian fight and Zhou had not forgotten the sound of it.

"Boss! Mr. Smith!" He bowed so hard his glasses slipped. "Ledgers. Inventory. Supplier lists. Everything is ready for your inspection. We can start in the cold rooms or the office, whichever you—"

"Save it," Rick said, walking past him. "I want every premium supplier on the books. Names. Dates. Who touched what. If anything dirty is aimed at my hotel before the summit, I want it stopped at the dock. Not after it hits a plate."

"Yes, Boss. Immediately." Zhou scurried to keep up, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that was already losing. They passed glass cases of bluefin and caviar that would have made Julian cry. A junior butcher froze mid-cut when he recognised Rick from the showdown. Two clerks dropped into bows so fast one of them knocked a price slate off the counter. Rick did not slow down.

"How many suppliers on the A-list?" he asked.

"Forty-two premium. Twelve of those handle summit-grade product. I have the files upstairs."

"Good. After the interviews, you and I go through every one. If Pei Hao signed off on any of them, I want those flagged first."

Zhou swallowed.

"Deputy Pei Hao has been... very involved in daily operations."

"I noticed," Rick said. "There is one problem. We have no Head of Acquisitions."

Rick stopped.

Zhou almost walked into his back.

"The last one was in with the old management," Zhou said quickly, hands up. "We fired him the same day you took over. Without a real palate on incoming shipments, the suppliers will try to pass garbage. They always do when they think nobody at the top can taste the difference."

"And you left that chair empty for two days."

"We are conducting final interviews now. Third floor. Six candidates. Deputy Manager Pei Hao is overseeing them."

Rick smiled, slow and unimpressed.

"He’s not overseeing them anymore. I am. Bring them in one at a time. If they talk like a brochure, they’re out. If they can tell spoiled from perfect with their eyes closed, they stay."

Zhou went pale and nodded so fast it looked painful.

"Yes, Boss. I will tell Pei Hao at once."

"Don’t tell him. I’ll be in the office."

Zhou rode the private elevator with him in silence. On the third floor Rick walked the length of the executive corridor like he was touring a kitchen pass. The mahogany desk in the main office was oversized and ridiculous. Rick sat behind it anyway, put his boots on the polished wood, and nodded at the chair by the wall.

"Stand there. Don’t introduce me. Let them walk in."

"Boss... Pei Hao believes he is conducting this."

"He believed a lot of things this morning," Rick said. "Send him in when he’s done performing."

Zhou took his place by the desk and tried to stop sweating. It did not work.

---

The third-floor waiting room was leather, silence, and one very loud problem.

Five real candidates sat with folders and years of sourcing work. An older man with a thick portfolio. A woman who smelled faintly of dry-aged beef. Two quiet specialists who had the look of people who lived in cold rooms. They kept their voices down.

The sixth sat in the middle of the largest sofa like the building had been built around her.

Tiffany.

Same gold-digger. Same ruined face. Same attitude. Tight red dress shoved up to her collarbone. Backup stilettos, because the white pair still smelled like soy. She inspected her acrylics and talked to the room like it owed her rent.

"I don’t know why you people are even here," she said. "This is Neptune. They don’t hire anyone who smells like cheap oil and a bus."

The older man with the folder cleared his throat.

"Miss, we have decades of high-end sourcing. You don’t appear to have brought a resume."

Tiffany laughed. It was not a nice sound. She crossed her legs and let the dress do the rest.

"A resume? Elite people don’t need paper. I am guaranteed this job. Connections beat your little folders. You can sit there and hope. I already won."

"That is not how a professional interview works."

"It is how this one works," Tiffany said. "You will see."

The woman with the dry-aged smell spoke without looking up.

"Some of us have letters from three-star kitchens."

Tiffany waved a hand.

"Paper. I have a man. You can keep your letters. They will look very nice on the bus home."

Nobody laughed. Tiffany laughed enough for all of them.

The heavy doors opened before he could answer.

Pei Hao walked in wearing a tacky bright suit and a smile that belonged in a back room. Late thirties. Greasy hair. Eyes that went straight to Tiffany’s chest and stayed there. He did not look at the other five. He did not need to.

"Tiffany, baby."

"Pei Hao!"

She dropped the princess act, bounced off the sofa, and threw herself at him. He did not care about the witnesses. He pulled her in, one hand on her waist, the other openly grabbing her fake chest like the waiting room was a private booth.

"You are so bad," Tiffany giggled, leaning into it. "In front of the peasants."

"Let them watch. They’re leaving anyway."

The other candidates went still. The interview was a joke and they all knew it. Nobody spoke. The woman with the dry-aged smell looked at the floor.

"I told you not to worry," Pei Hao said, squeezing once more before letting go. He looked at the others like they were furniture. "I’m running the finals today. She’s Head of Acquisitions. You’re here for HR. Congratulations on wasting the morning."

"I knew my man would handle it." Tiffany’s nails walked down his lapel. Then her face twisted. "But you have to do something. A psychotic delivery boy attacked me last night. Dumped raw fish and soy sauce on my limited-edition heels because he was five minutes late."

Pei Hao puffed up on cue.

"Some street rat touched my woman?"

"Black t-shirt. Dark jeans. Huge black motorcycle. He laughed at me. You said you had power in this city. Find him. Break his knees. I want him crying in an alley."

"Done." He actually spat when he talked. "I’ve got syndicate friends and local security. I’ll pull the cameras, hunt that dog down, and have him beaten until he forgets his own name. Nobody dumps food on what belongs to me."

Tiffany’s laugh was bright and ugly.

"Best sugar daddy ever."

She kissed his cheek and looked back at the horrified row of chefs like she had already won the building.

"Let’s finish this," Pei Hao said, arm around her waist, steering her toward the mahogany office. "You first, baby. We sign the papers. Six figures. Office with a view. Then these people can go back to the gutter."

Tiffany strutted. Hips. Red dress. The six-figure fantasy already spent in her head. She did not look at Zhou’s nameplate on the wall. She did not look at the market logo. She looked like a woman walking into a coronation.

"When we are done," she said, loud enough for the waiting room, "I want a list of every delivery rider who worked last night. Badge numbers. Bike plates. I will pick him out myself."

"Anything you want," Pei Hao said. "After we sign."

One of the quiet specialists finally stood up.

"This is a joke."

Pei Hao looked at him.

"Sit down. You’re not hired. You’re scenery."

The man sat.

Tiffany smiled like she had invented the building.

Pei Hao turned the brass handle and shoved the door open like he owned the hinge.

His smile died on the wood.

A man in a plain black t-shirt and dark jeans sat behind the executive desk with his boots on the polished mahogany. Zhou stood beside it, sweating, bowing, refusing to look at Pei Hao.

Rick turned his head.

He did not stand. He did not take his boots off the desk. He looked at Pei Hao first, then at the red dress, then at the shoes that were not the ones he had ruined.

Dead calm. Almost amused.

The same black shirt. The same jeans. The same look he had worn in her hallway when the soy sauce hit the floor.

For one stupid second Tiffany thought it was a coincidence. Same clothes. Same city. Then she saw Zhou bowing to him, and the desk, and the way Pei Hao had stopped breathing, and the thought died.

Tiffany’s mouth fell open so hard the fake lips looked like they might peel off.

The delivery boy from last night was in the highest chair in the building.

And he looked very comfortable there.

Pei Hao’s hand slipped off her waist. Tiffany did not scream. Not yet. She had used up last night’s scream on a pair of shoes, and this was worse.