Her figure was, quite honestly, explosive.
She wore an ultrashort white bodycon skirt that clung to the perfect curve of her hips. Her legs were long, straight, and smooth; her thighs were full and flawless. But what truly captivated the eye was her slim waist paired with her rounded, lifted backside—a combination that made for quite a visual punch.
When the woman turned around in the elevator, Grayson caught sight of her. She was stunning—undeniably gorgeous. Easily in her mid-twenties, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six—slightly older than Grayson—but that age suited her perfectly. She no longer had the girlish softness of a teenager; instead, she exuded the mature allure every woman should possess.
Click-clack. There was no denying it: adult women from the real world carried a certain intoxicating aura.
Just as the elevator doors were sliding nearly closed, Grayson hurriedly squeezed inside. The woman cast him a disapproving glance, as if his intrusion had wasted her time, but ultimately she said nothing.
Once the doors shut, it was only the two of them in that metal box, both of them heading up to the hotel's top floor. The woman's scent—an intoxicating perfume—filled the enclosed space, making Grayson feel both nervous and excited.
She stood in front; he hovered at her side and slightly behind. From this angle, he could fully appreciate her flawless shape. Try as he might to remind himself to behave, to keep his thoughts pure—after all, he was supposed to be a gentleman—how could any man remain untouched in the presence of such a woman? The mature elegance of this beauty was in a completely different league than the attractive female classmates he'd seen on campus. He truly felt a rush of desire unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
Suddenly, the woman turned her head and scowled at him. "What are you looking at?" she snapped.
"Nothing! Nothing! I—uh—wasn't looking at anything," Grayson stammered. He was so tense—so aroused—because of her beauty that he could hardly speak in complete sentences.
"Really?" she sneered. After all, the elevator's smooth, mirrored walls gave her a full view of everything behind her, including Grayson's every furtive glance. "Weren't you staring at me?"
"I—I wasn't!" Grayson insisted, though he felt guilty as sin. This woman was not only head-turningly beautiful but also fierce and sexy. She was older than him, and her sharp tone intimidated him while simultaneously teasing his excitement. His words came out jumbled, his tongue tied in nervous knots.
That's when he felt it: his manhood suddenly tensed, standing at full attention—and painfully so. He was wearing jeans today, but her mere presence caused the fabric to press painfully against his erect shaft. In a panic, he twisted his torso away, unwilling to let her catch a second glimpse of his obvious arousal. It was utterly humiliating.
But it wasn't entirely his fault. The woman's figure really was that breathtaking. When she pivoted to face him in the narrow elevator, there was no hiding her deep, enticing cleavage, showcased so temptingly against her sleek white skirt. At Grayson's age, desire coursed through him like an unstoppable river, and any rational restraint flew right out the door.
Just as he attempted to twist back around to offer an explanation, his nose suddenly tickled unbearably. A sneeze exploded out of him: "Achoo!"
He had no idea whether her perfume had tickled his nostrils or he was simply too tense, but the force of his sneeze sprayed a warm, milky-white discharge right onto the front of the woman's blouse. The color and consistency were unmistakable—eerily reminiscent of a man's cum.
"Shit…" Grayson's face turned tomato-red. He fumbled for a tissue to wipe her chest but realized in horror that he had none. Without thinking, he raised his hand to dab at the wet spot.
"What are you doing?" she snapped, her face blazing with disgust.
"I—let me wipe that off for you," he blurted, still dazed. Only then did he realize that his hand was pressed firmly against the fabric covering her breasts.
"Pervert!" she shrieked, slapping him hard across the cheek. At exactly that moment, the elevator reached the top floor, the doors whooshed open, and she stormed out, leaving Grayson behind, stunned by the force of her slap. His cheek throbbed in pain—definitely no light tap.
Grayson pressed a trembling hand to his reddened face. In fairness, he had touched her chest, so that slap was well deserved—but the embarrassment was suffocating. He took a few breaths and then hurried out of the elevator himself.
Sebastian Caldwell and several other executives from the Western branch were already waiting. Most of these men were in their forties or fifties, each one exuding the calm, confident demeanor of a seasoned businessman. They wore impeccable suits and immediately greeted Grayson with handshakes and formal introductions. Yet each of them noticed—somewhat uneasily—that the right side of Grayson's face bore fresh, red marks. None dared ask the cause.
"Young Master Grayson, please take a seat," Caldwell said, gesturing toward a plush chair. As the branch head, Caldwell was in his forties—steady, shrewd, and every inch a capable executive.
Once everyone settled in, the servers began bringing out the courses, and a bottle of fine wine was uncorked. One by one, dishes arrived: a platter of oysters with champagne foam and caviar, a scoop of carrot sorbet atop foie gras mousse, slowly sous-vide Japanese A5 Wagyu, charcoal-grilled Chilean seabass crowned with miso espuma…
Grayson stared at the spread as though he'd never seen food before. Most of these dishes were completely unfamiliar to him—the colors, presentation, and sheer extravagance assaulted his senses. He looked genuinely lost, not knowing which item to sample first. He hadn't dared eat before the boss of the branch had taken the lead, so everyone hesitated too, waiting for Grayson's example.
Caldwell, ever the veteran, seemed to sense Grayson's unease. He leaned in and explained each dish: "Young Master, this is our oysters with champagne foam and caviar. Over here is the carrot sorbet paired with foie gras mousse. Next, the Japanese A5 Wagyu, cooked sous-vide. And here, charcoal-grilled Chilean seabass with miso espuma…"
After Cairdell finished his descriptions, Grayson relaxed and picked up his fork. He sampled the oysters with champagne foam first; seeing his lead, the other executives began to dig in too.
As they ate and sipped wine, Caldwell treated Grayson like a junior manager receiving a briefing. He detailed the family's assets and influence in Oregon—properties, enterprises, investments—all managed by the Western branch. Grayson listened in astonishment. He realized that many companies he'd heard of in Oregon actually belonged to his own family's empire. The revelation surprised him profoundly.
Although Grayson was born into considerable wealth, he naturally disliked the spoiled image of many second-generation heirs. His family enforced strict rules upon him, so his own life experience was remarkably similar to an ordinary person's. This was why he'd never realized how vast the family's holdings truly were.
A short while later, Caldwell looked at the entrance and asked, "Where is Victoria? She should have arrived by now."
Just then, rapid clicks of stiletto heels sounded behind Grayson. He turned his head and recognized a voice: "Mr. Caldwell, I'm so sorry I'm late."
Caldwell softened. "What happened, Victoria? Today of all days, with Young Master Grayson here, you'd think you'd be punctual."
"I'm truly sorry, Mr. Caldwell. I wouldn't have been late under normal circumstances, but there was an incident in the elevator… I had to use the restroom, and I lost some time," Victoria replied. It was then that Grayson realized this sensual woman—whose blouse he had accidentally sprayed in the elevator—was Victoria from the Western branch's intelligence department.
His heart raced again at the memory of her. He was happy to see a familiar face but also deeply mortified. Facing her now would be extremely awkward.
Caldwell wasted no time. He led Victoria to stand beside Grayson, but she approached at a slight angle. Embarrassed, Grayson kept his head turned enough so that Victoria could see only the unmarked side of his cheek.
"Young Master Grayson, hello," Victoria said politely. "I'm Victoria, from the Western branch's Intelligence Department. It's a pleasure to meet you." She extended her hand for a handshake.
There was no escape this time; Grayson hesitated only a moment before half-turning to fully face her. At once, Victoria froze, her hand midway through the air. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she stammered, "Oh… you—you are… Young Master Grayson?"
"Uh, uh, yeah," Grayson replied, still choked up. "I—I'm sorry about earlier."
Victoria took a sharp intake of breath as she registered his apology. Grayson's awkward tone left Caldwell and the other executives exchanging puzzled glances—clearly, Grayson and Victoria recognized each other, though no one else knew why.
For a beat, everyone stood in uncomfortable silence: Grayson and Victoria, embarrassed and speechless; Caldwell and the others, confused by this strange reunion.
Finally, Caldwell—always perceptive—pulled Victoria aside for a quiet word. After about a minute of hushed conversation, they returned to Grayson. Caldwell smiled broadly and announced, "It turns out that Young Master Grayson and Victoria already met back in the elevator."
"I'm terribly sorry, Young Master Grayson," Victoria said. "I had no idea it was you in the elevator. Please forgive me."
"There's no problem," Grayson said, finally laughing. "It was a misunderstanding. And honestly, I wasn't at a disadvantage—after all, I did touch your chest."
Victoria's eyes widened, then she blinked, realized what he meant, and began to laugh too. Thus, the awkwardness dissolved, and a warm, convivial air returned to the dinner.
They ate, drank, and chatted, everyone relaxed and enjoying themselves. Before long, the meal drew to a close, and it was time to leave.
"Young Master, would you like to retire to the club afterward?" Caldwell asked. Since they were treating him tonight, he felt obliged to see to Grayson's every need.
"The club?" Grayson blushed, imagining a place teeming with semi-naked beauties. He shook his head. "No, thank you."
Victoria noticed his flush and allowed a small, knowing smile to cross her lips. Something in her gaze hinted at amusement and perhaps even admiration.
Caldwell nodded and didn't press further. He motioned for the others to stand. All the executives rose, waiting for Grayson to get up first before following suit. Yet Grayson remained seated, gazing down at the few remaining fruits on the plate in front of him.
"Young Master Grayson, are you still hungry? Should I have the servers bring out more food?" Caldwell blurted out, mortified. How could he have been so thoughtless? Treating Grayson to a lavish meal only to leave him wanting more? This was terrible hospitality.
"I'm not—I'm not hungry," Grayson hurried to reassure him, then pointed to the leftover fruit. "I just noticed no one is eating these fruits. I was thinking—maybe I could have them packed to go? Haha."
The table went silent in collective shock.
Did he just say he wanted to take leftovers home? Who had ever seen a scion of a wealthy family ask to pack up the uneaten portion of a feast? Especially this kind of high-rolling banquet?
And yet, instead of feeling put off, everyone felt a surge of respect for Grayson. Here was a young man from the richest families in the country, but he displayed no trace of arrogance or indulgence. He was someone who would undoubtedly achieve greatness in life.