Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives

Villain Ch 1642. Too Mainstream

The dressing trailer was cool, quiet, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus, hair product, and expensive leather. Allen sat in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed but unmistakably sharp—like he was conserving energy, not resting.

A stylist moved carefully around him, adjusting strands of his hair with a comb that never quite touched his scalp. Another dabbed something near his cheekbone with a sponge, muttering about light balance and camera shine. His reflection in the vanity mirror was already flawless, but they moved like priests before a sacred altar.

Allen didn’t mind. Not really.

But his gaze flicked toward the slitted trailer blinds, where just beyond, he could see flashes of the set—the curved fake ruins and that godsdamn fountain that looked like it belonged in a budget fantasy MMO ad, not a CEO branding campaign.

He finally broke the silence.

“So… the theme is still the ‘long-lost heir CEO’ thing, right?” he asked, his voice low and casual as always. “Because the set looks like we’re doing a low-budget lost Greek God.”

The stylist nearest him chuckled nervously, brushing a last bit of invisible dust from his shoulder. “Oh, yeah. Still CEO. Just with a twist.”

Allen raised an eyebrow slowly. “A twist?”

The woman doing his hair spoke this time, her tone a little too bright. “Mhm. Like… ‘CEO in the wild.’ You know, unrestrained power. Heir to empires but grounded in ruin.”

Allen gave her a look.

“CEO in the wild?” he repeated flatly. “With Greek ruins?”

“Yeah, don’t ask me.” She stepped back and looked at his hair from different angles. “That’s just what they told us. The standard boardroom-and-glass-wall CEO aesthetic is too mainstream, they said.”

“So…” Allen blinked, lips twitching. “This is the agency’s idea of originality?”

One of the assistants gave a helpless shrug, clearly uncomfortable. “We… think it’s from higher up.”

Allen tilted his head slightly. “Photographer’s call?”

“No, sir,” said the guy holding his coat. “Mr. Bell.”

That made Allen pause. Just for a beat.

Mr. Bell wasn’t the kind to micromanage aesthetics. Not unless something was off. Or risky.

Or unless he was trying to buy time.

“…Interesting,” Allen muttered, sitting back. He didn’t need to ask more.

Because now he knew.

This wasn’t just a shoot. It was a diversion. A redirection.

Keep him off-site.

Keep him as far from Sophia as possible.

And probably, the agency was on fire now.

Not a literal fire.

A different kind.

He rolled up one sleeve as the coat assistant offered him the jacket—charcoal-gray with gold stitching on the cuffs, something designed to look expensive without trying too hard. Allen didn’t move yet.

He was thinking.

So this is what it came to. They shuffled him out into the wild. And no one even thought to ask if he cared.

He didn’t.

Not really.

But the timing…

That was sloppy.

“Alright,” the stylist said, stepping back. “You’re ready.”

Allen stood, straightening his collar in the mirror, adjusting the cut with a flick of his fingers. His watch gleamed under the vanity light. The low hum of the air conditioning felt colder than it should have.

He looked like sin in formalwear. Polished. Measured. Dangerous.

“Thanks,” he murmured absently, then slid on his sunglasses again—mirrored lenses reflecting back a man who looked nothing like someone you could manage.

And that was the point, wasn’t it?

Let Bell try. Let Sophia scream. Let the agency burn.

He would give them their ‘wild CEO’—

But they better remember who built the ruins in the first place.

He stepped out of the trailer just as the sun cracked the canopy again. The wind caught the edge of his coat as he walked, brushing it around his legs like a cape.

The camera crew paused. Heads turned.

And somewhere nearby, just out of sight—

Two hearts skipped a beat.

Vivian felt it first.

A pulse.

A throb beneath her ribs like a struck chord.

Allen stepped into the sunlight like a sin the gods forgot to erase.

His shirt clung just enough to hint at the sculpted sharpness beneath, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that looked like they could either crush her or hold her like she mattered. The charcoal jacket draped over one shoulder, two fingers hooked loosely at the collar. Sunglasses still on. And that walk—lazy, slow, and utterly predatory.

Vivian forgot how to breathe.

Mila, a step behind her, had gone completely still. Her hand hovered awkwardly near her glossed lips.

‘Oh my God.’

He looked like the kind of man who’d make her sign a five-year contract just to get a kiss.

And right now, she had to pretend to be his secretary.

The stylist snapped her fingers. “Ladies, in position, please! Allen, you’re center!”

Allen walked past them without a word, but Vivian swore she caught it—the subtle tilt of his head, the faint twitch of his smirk.

He knew.

Of course he did.

They were nothing but matches around a bonfire.

The shoot began.

The first setup was deceptively simple.

A cracked stone desk placed just beneath a moss-draped arch, framed by fractured pillars and filtered morning light bleeding through the trees. The ruins whispered of fallen empires, forgotten vows, and things that should’ve stayed buried.

Allen took his seat at the center of it all, putting off his sunglasses.

His eyes were fire under ice. Cold… but deep. Pulling. Dangerous.

Vivian was already lowering herself into his lap—elegant, languid, like it was the only throne that made sense for her. One arm draped over his shoulders, her other hand braced against his chest.

Allen didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look at her.

Not yet.

On the opposite side, Mila moved.

Not like a model. Like something summoned.

She slid onto the desk—legs crossed at the knee, file folder still in hand but forgotten as her fingers reached out, brushing along the line of his jaw.

Her nails were short. Neat. But the touch was intimate. Testing.

Allen tilted his head slightly, letting her fingers trace up to his chin.

Then—he looked at her.

Direct. Unfiltered.

And Mila’s breath caught so hard she almost choked on it.

Her heart screamed.

That gaze. That impossible gaze—somewhere between a king appraising his newest conquest and a devil daring her to kneel.

Flash.

Click!

“Perfect!” the photographer gasped. “Hold that—Vivian, lean closer. Yes, like that. Allen, keep the chin tilt. Mila—gorgeous tension!”

Vivian’s body tightened slightly as she shifted, her lips brushing close to Allen’s neck, just above the collarbone. Her heartbeat thundered.

He hadn’t even touched her.

But he didn’t need to.

The weight of him beneath her, the quiet heat of his body, the control rolling off his skin in steady waves—it was everything.

She remembered Glass Maw again.

His voice. His hand on her throat. The way the digital world blurred when he whispered “Mine.”

And now?

Now he was here. Solid. Warm. Real.

‘Mine.’

It echoed in her skull like a prayer.

Mila leaned forward from her perch.

Allen’s lips quirked. Just a twitch. But it held everything.

Vivian felt her stomach twist deliciously.

The camera kept clicking.

But the real story wasn’t the photo.

It was the atmosphere.

It was the tension between breaths.

It was the fact that neither Vivian nor Mila were acting anymore.

Not really.

Because this wasn’t just a scene.

This was a warning.

He wasn’t just a CEO.

He was the empire itself.

And they were already his.

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