Lust System: I will Cuck Everyone

"Nineteen."

Rick said it like he was counting out change. He took a sip of water and stayed exactly where he was, lounging against Lexi’s pillows like the bed had always been his.

Lexi made a small broken sound and dropped again.

Sweat had turned the yoga pants into a second skin. At the bottom of the squat the fabric went fully honest. Black lace. Pale thighs. The sports bra had lost the war three repetitions ago. She pushed back up on shaking legs, face burning, eyes locked on him because looking anywhere else would have been worse.

"I can’t," she whispered. "My legs—"

"Twenty," Rick said. Still pleasant. Still impossible. "Down."

She bit her lip and started the last squat.

That was when the front door opened.

Not a click this time. The full swing. Expensive shoes on hardwood. A woman’s voice, sharp and bright and already talking.

"Lexi, sweetheart, we decided to drop by since we were in the area! Why is there a cooler in the kitchen? And whose jacket is this?"

Lexi froze at the bottom of the squat.

All the colour left her face.

She knew that voice.

She tried to stand. Her thighs almost refused. She never made it to the towel.

Two people walked straight into the open bedroom like they paid the mortgage.

The woman wore a designer trench and a look that expected her daughter to be on a laptop reviewing restaurants. The man behind her had the posture of someone used to being the richest person in any room he entered.

They both stopped.

The mother saw Lexi first. Sheer pants. Sweat. Sports bra. Mid-squat. Then her eyes snapped to the man on the bed with a glass of water and no urgency at all.

The Hermes bag hit the floor.

"Lexi!"

The father found his voice a second later. It came out purple.

"What in God’s name is going on in here?"

Lexi scrambled up so fast she nearly went over her own feet. She crossed her arms over her chest like that would undo the last eighteen squats.

"Mom. Dad. It is not what it looks like."

Rick’s eyebrows rose a fraction. He had heard that sentence twice in twenty minutes.

"I was working out," Lexi said, too fast, too high. "We were testing recipes for the Summit. He was helping me exercise."

Her father made a sound that was not a laugh.

"Exercise." He looked Rick up and down — black t-shirt, dark jeans, bare feet on his daughter’s white sheets — and decided the story for himself. "With this man lying on your bed like he owns it?"

"Dad, stop."

Lexi moved half a step in front of Rick like that would help.

"He is a guest. You do not talk to my guests like that."

"I talk to whoever is sitting on my daughter’s bed in the middle of the afternoon," her father snapped. "Look at you. Look at what you are wearing. Do you have any idea what this would do to your reputation if it got out? You are a judge. A public face. And you have some man in a t-shirt counting squats like you are a—"

"Finish that sentence," Rick said mildly, "and I am going to stop being polite."

The father blinked.

Rick still had not stood up. That was the part that seemed to offend him most.

"Polite," the older man repeated. "You are in my daughter’s bedroom."

"She invited me. Then she tried to hide a drawer. Then she agreed to pay for dinner. You walked in at twenty." Rick tipped the glass toward Lexi. "She was doing very well, by the way."

"Rick," Lexi hissed.

"What? He asked what was going on. I am answering."

The mother had not moved from the doorframe. Her eyes kept bouncing from the sheer pants to the watch to her husband’s purple face.

"Margaret," the father said without looking at her. "Call the building. I want security."

"You do not want security," Lexi said. "Dad. I am serious. Stop talking."

"I will not stop." He pointed at Rick. "Who are you? A delivery boy? Did you talk your way in here so you could live off her streaming money? Get your shoes off that bed and get out of this apartment before I call the police."

Lexi made a noise of pure panic.

Rick did not get up. He did not raise his voice. He just set the water glass down, sat forward on the edge of the bed, and tugged his left cuff back as if he were checking the time.

The Patek caught the overhead lights.

Two hundred thousand dollars of platinum and diamonds sat on his wrist like it had always belonged there. The father’s rant died mid-sentence. His eyes, the eyes of a man who knew what waiting lists looked like, locked onto the watch and stayed there.

"That..." He swallowed. "That watch..."

"Dad," Lexi said, voice cracking. "Shut your mouth. He is not a delivery boy. His name is Rick Smith. He owns fifty-five percent of the Peninsula. He bought the Neptune Platinum Market this afternoon. In cash."

The bedroom went silent.

The mother’s knees actually dipped. She caught the doorframe.

The father went from purple to grey in about three seconds. Every rumour he had heard that week — the ghost shareholder, the market buyout, the young master thrown into the street — arrived in his head at once and sat down.

He had just threatened the man who could erase him with a phone call.

His spine folded.

"Young Master Rick." The bow was ninety degrees and desperate. "Please forgive me. I had eyes and I did not see. I was... I was joking earlier."

Rick watched him with the same mild interest he had given the yoga pants.

"A joke," he said.

"Yes. A terrible one." The father straightened just enough to keep talking. "Seeing you here is an honour. You two look— you make a lovely couple. If you are satisfied with Lexi, we can discuss a dowry immediately. She would make a very obedient—"

"Dad!"

Lexi’s voice hit the ceiling.

Rick chuckled. Not kind. Not cruel. Just entertained in the way he got when the city’s so-called elite showed him their real face.

"I’m not interested in your speech," he said, standing. "Or your dowry."

He picked up the cooler with the Emperor Bluefin and walked past them into the kitchen like they were furniture. The parents scrambled out of his way and followed at a polite, terrified distance.

Rick set the cooler on the marble island. The Shadow-Forged Cleavers appeared in his hands without ceremony. The father made a small sound at the sight of the black steel and then thought better of speaking.

Culinary Mastery took over.

He worked the way he cooked at the Peninsula — no flourish, no wasted motion, no interest in being watched. The first loin came off in a single clean pass. The o-toro was cut so thin the marble showed through it. Truffle went down like it had been waiting for this fish specifically. The glaze hit the pan for eight seconds and came off shining.

"You can blink," Rick said without looking up. "It will still be here."

The father closed his mouth.

Lexi hovered at the far side of the island, tugging at the sports bra like that would make her parents forget it existed. It would not.

"I should change," she muttered.

"After you taste it. I’m not plating this twice."

"My parents are standing right there."

"They already saw the squats. A spoon is going to be the least interesting thing that happened in this apartment today."

The mother made a tiny wounded sound.

Ten minutes. That was all it took. The hundred-thousand-dollar fish came apart in clean, precise cuts. O-toro. Rare truffle. A citrus glaze that made the whole apartment smell like someone had opened a door into a better restaurant. Rick plated a tuna tartare so sharp and pretty it looked illegal.

Lexi had drifted into the kitchen without noticing she had moved. Still in the sheer pants. Still sweating. Drawn to the island like the food had a hook in her.

Rick ignored the parents completely. He loaded a silver spoon, stepped into her space, and held it to her mouth.

"Eat."

Lexi leaned in and took the bite.

The second it hit her tongue, Culinary Mastery’s passive effect slammed through her system. Heat. Dopamine. That unfair, liquid rush his food always carried.

"Ummmm—"

The moan was loud, explicit, and completely unplanned. Her eyes fluttered. Her thighs clamped together. She grabbed the edge of the island so she would not go down.

"Oh my god... Rick." Her voice was wrecked. "It’s perfect. It’s actually perfect."

Her parents stood in the living room doorway and did not say a word. The mother looked like she wanted the floor to open. The father looked like he was recalculating every plan he had ever made for his daughter.

Rick set the spoon down, still smiling that small, cheeky smile.

"Summit appetizer," he said. "First draft. Notes later."

A chime sounded in his head.

Ding!

[Quest Completed: Formulate the Ultimate Summit Appetizer!]

[Objective: Emperor Bluefin used. Lead judge’s palate conquered.]

[Reward: +2% Chef Occupation Progress]

[Chef Occupation Progress: 40%]

Ding!

[Massive Milestone Reached: 40% Chef Class Completion]

[Reward: Instant 15% Controlling Stake in the Global Michelin Star Rating Board]

[Description: You now hold real power inside the organisation that awards culinary stars worldwide.]

Rick read the gold text and felt the shape of the next week settle into place.

Peninsula. Neptune Market. A slice of the Michelin board. The lead judge still gripping his kitchen island like the floor was optional.

He glanced at Lexi, then at her parents, then out the windows at the city.

"Seven days," he said, mostly to himself.

The summit was coming.

George’s people still thought they were hunting a chef.

They were walking into a much bigger kitchen than they understood.

He finally glanced at her parents. The father was still half-waiting for permission to exist. The mother had picked the Hermes bag up off the bedroom floor and was holding it like a shield.

"You dropped by," Rick said. "You’ve seen the kitchen. You can drop by again after the summit. Not before."

It was not a shout. It was not a threat. It was just a man closing a door.

The father nodded too many times.

"Of course. Of course. We will call first. Lexi, darling, we will call first."

They backed toward the hall like the floor might change its mind. The front door closed softer than it had opened.

Lexi dropped her forehead onto the marble.

"I am going to die."

"You’re not." Rick stole a second bite of the tartare for himself, then set the plate aside. "You’re going to finish nineteen and twenty later. I don’t like unpaid bills."

She lifted her head just enough to glare at him.

"You are impossible."

"I know." He tapped the cooler with one knuckle. "Tuna’s prepped. Watch still works. Your parents think I’m a marriage prospect. Productive afternoon."

Lexi hid her face in her hands.

Rick looked at the gold system text still hovering at the edge of his vision — forty percent, Michelin board, seven days — and smiled at the skyline.

George could keep plotting.

Rick had just fed the lead judge in front of her parents and bought a slice of the only organisation that could crown him in public.

The summit was going to be fun.