Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Chapter 180 – [Surveillance Detected]

Back in Sovereign Grand, the suite lights blinked as Lux appeared near the window balcony.

Except—he didn’t step inside.

Not yet.

He paused mid-phase, half-teleported, half-hung between shadows and light. One foot still in the crackle of dimensional magic, the other hovering inches above the floor.

[Warning: Surveillance detected.]

Lux blinked once. His red eyes sharpened.

”...Talk to me.”

[Two unauthorized micro-devices detected within the suite.]

”From which realm?” His voice was calm, but something cold curled at the edge of his mouth.

[Origin: Mortal realm. Corporate-grade technology. Analog stealth casing, wireless encrypted feed.]

”Not divine. Not demonic. Just... mundane?”

[A very expensive form of mundane.]

Lux rolled his neck.

”Where?”

[Camera one: magnetized to the back of the nightstand lamp. Angle suggests targeted visuals of the bed area.]

He clicked his tongue.

”And the second?”

[Camera two: magnetic micro-lens attached beneath the drawer interior of the closet. Overlooks accessory compartment. Potential target: wardrobe habits, item origin, valuables.]

He sighed like a CEO reading quarterly reports riddled with typos. ”They wanted receipts.”

[Affirmative. Nothing celestial, infernal, or magical. Entirely tech-based. Likely planted by high-tier mortal agents.]

He hovered in place another moment, mind already calculating.

Someone knew who he was—or at least suspected. But they didn’t know what he was. The difference mattered.

That meant this wasn’t a divine operation. Not a demonic challenge. It wasn’t some angel looking to preach purity or a rival sin lord tossing curses through his window. This was local.

Mortal.

Which meant...

”...The auction,” he muttered aloud.

[Probable correlation: 89.3%. Post-event targeting is consistent with local espionage timelines.]

Lux narrowed his eyes. ”Then I can’t go in through the balcony.”

[Recommendation: approach via public-facing route. Simulate absence until this moment.]

”Already on it.”

He vanished again.

[Teleport]

The air changed.

He appeared just outside his suite door, a few feet away from the nearest hallway security cam—outside its line of sight, precisely where his system mapped the blind spots.

The marble floor here still gleamed from last night’s cleaning pass. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish, jasmine diffuser oil, and capitalism.

Lux rolled his shoulders.

Then... adjusted his posture. Set his expression to a neutral ”I’ve-been-out-all-night” look. A slight lean in his walk, like fatigue. A wrinkle in his collar, like he hadn’t slept somewhere comfortable.

He pulled his suite card from his pocket, tapped it once, and let the door slide open with a muted chime.

-Chhhk!

The suite welcomed him back with the same usual fanfare. Self-adjusting curtains dimming the sunrise glow, and lights warming to a mellow red hue.

He walked in slowly. Casually.

No tension.

No suspicion.

Just a guy coming home from a night out.

He tossed his wallet on the counter, kicked off his shoes by the couch, and didn’t say a single word.

Because whoever planted those cameras might be watching with audio.

Instead, he moved wordlessly toward the kitchen, grabbed the glass coffee press, and began brewing like his life depended on it.

Grind. Boil. Stir. Wait.

The familiar motions calmed him. Sort of.

The bitterness helped more.

Once it was done, he poured a black cup—no sugar, no cream—and downed a third of it in one go. He even added a dramatic sigh, just for show. A little mortal exhaustion. A little pretend burnout. The mask of a man too rich to care and too busy to know.

Then...

-Thunk!

He ”accidentally” bumped the lamp on the nightstand with the back of his hand as he passed by on the way to the closet.

”Oh—” he mumbled, catching it mid-tilt like a guy who was just too tired to function properly. ”Stupid thing.”

He righted the lamp, but nudged the base just slightly—enough that the angle of the hidden camera was now staring at the wall instead of the bed. And he didn’t even look at it again. Just kept walking.

Next stop: the closet.

He opened the wardrobe with a flick of his wrist, tugged out his coat from earlier, and—casually—laid it over the drawer section. Not stuffed, not folded. Just enough to cover the magnetized edge where the second camera lived.

Then he muttered to himself, ”Need to get this tailored. Should’ve done it yesterday...”

He walked to the mirror, sipped his coffee again.

Still nothing said directly to the cameras. Nothing threatening. Just enough plausible deniability.

Until now.

Now, he spoke aloud—loud enough to catch on the lamp mic, sharp enough to feel intentional, careless in all the right ways.

”Yeah,” he said like he was mid-phone call, tone mildly annoyed. ”No, I told you yesterday. The Phoenix Egg was fake. Don’t play dumb.”

Pause.

”You think I don’t know who was backing the Duke? Come on. I wasn’t born into this. I built it. I see everything.”

He walked to the window again.

”Don’t care. You tell her. I’m not running. Lamia should be grateful this incident happened—otherwise, she’d be going home with a fake egg.”

Another sip of coffee.

”I said I’m not running. You got that?”

He chuckled darkly, set the mug down with a faint clink.

Then leaned forward on the windowsill, gaze distant.

”...Let them watch,” he said, this time quieter. ”The only thing they’ll learn is what happens when they try to price a thing they can’t afford.”

[Performance: Convincing. Tone: 91.2% human rage. Subtle bait: successful.]

Lux smirked.

’Nice...’ he thought.

The coffee still lingered on his tongue—bitter, earthy, grounding. But it wasn’t enough. Not to douse the flame unfurling in his chest like slow poison. Someone had put eyes on him. Mortal ones. Quiet. Precise. Cheap, by demonic standards—but still. It wasn’t the money. It was the insult.

He leaned his head back, resting it against the edge of the couch, and let his gaze flick lazily toward the ceiling.

Then he whispered.

”Corvus.”

A flicker in the air.

And then, fwump—a sudden rush of dark feathers spiraling into the room like a velvet storm. The bird formed midair, talons twisting, wings stretching, its form resolving in three silent beats of shadow and curl. He landed on the curtain rod near the balcony window.