Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives

Villain Ch 1643. Menace in Daylight

The camera kept clicking.

But somewhere along the line—no one knew exactly when—it stopped feeling like a photoshoot and started to feel like worship.

The photographer kept directing them in short, breathless bursts.

“Vivian—hand on his collar again, like you’re about to tear it open. Good. Mila, tilt your head—closer. That’s it. Look at him like you want to start a scandal.”

It should’ve been ridiculous.

Greek ruins. CEO theme. Sunshine.

But somehow… no.

Now it worked.

It was wild. Raw.

Menace in daylight.

Like seduction wasn’t confined to backseats and smoky lounges—it was standing out in the open, challenging the world to look away.

Their poses shifted. Grew bolder. More feral.

Allen sprawled back in his seat, legs open, shirt half undone, his coat draped over one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to wear it properly. Vivian knelt beside him in one shot, her lipstick deliberately smudged, hand on his inner thigh, eyes full of mischief.

Mila had taken the desk again—this time seated on the edge, legs spread just enough, one finger in her mouth, the other curled into Allen’s collar like she owned it.

And Allen—

He looked hungry.

Just that gaze.

That infamous, cold-burning stare that made the camera crew go dead silent each time he locked eyes with the lens.

In one solo shot, he licked his thumb, slow and deliberate, then trailed it down the front of his chest like he’d just wiped someone else’s lipstick off.

-Click!

Then came the smirk.

Lazy. Dangerous. The kind that made everyone feel like they’d been caught doing something wrong.

But it was never boyish.

This wasn’t a thirst trap.

It was a warning shot.

Vivian, in another frame, sat in his lap again—this time leaning back, one heel kicked off, dress strap fallen, her grin wicked and perfect, red-stained lips open in mid-laugh. Her lipstick clearly smeared across his jaw.

Mila, beside them, held his tie wrapped around her wrist like a leash, red kiss marks stamped along his neck like they branded him.

The trio didn’t look like a CEO and his secretaries anymore.

They looked like an evil empire.

And Allen was their king.

By the end of it, even the makeup artists gave up trying to ‘clean’ them.

“Leave it,” the photographer had said with a breathless grin when someone reached in to adjust Allen’s half-unbuttoned collar. “Let it stay wild.”

And it did.

They didn’t fix Vivian’s smudged lipstick. They didn’t straighten Mila’s twisted blouse. They didn’t dare touch the mess.

Because the chaos was beautiful.

For three long hours, the photoshoot played out like an erotic power play dressed up as editorial art.

Every shot was sharp angles and tangled limbs. Allen didn’t pose like a model—he owned every frame. He sat like a man with an empire burning behind him and two sirens kneeling at the throne he built. Vivian and Mila? They weren’t playing assistants anymore. They had fangs in their smiles and hunger in their eyes.

It wasn’t seduction.

It was possession.

And every flash of the camera sealed it deeper into legend.

Vivian’s voice got lower. Mila’s touches got slower. Allen? He never broke character. Never flinched.

He thrived in it.

By the time the final shutter clicked, the crew was half speechless.

“Wrap,” the photographer finally called out, voice cracking slightly. “We’re done. That’s a wrap.”

Allen stood first. Rolled his shoulders. Smiled—still sharp.

And the first thing he did?

He walked over to the main monitor, already pulling his shirt straight again, but not bothering to fix the lipstick marks still smudged against his throat. They looked deliberate now. Like trophies.

“Let me see them,” he said, voice calm, low, but with a weight that turned heads.

The photographer blinked, caught off guard by how quickly he shifted from predator to precision. “Uh—now?”

Allen smirked, not unkindly. “I’m not leaving until I see them all.”

The two techs behind the monitor scrambled, fingers flying across the keyboard, dragging previews into a carousel. The shots began to fill the screen—one after another, a slow scroll of sensual tension and unspoken chaos.

Allen leaned in, hands braced on the table beside the screen. He said nothing at first. Just observed. Silent. Focused. His eyes moved like a surgeon—not scanning for vanity, but for structure, for emotion, for story.

He tilted his head at one. “That one… frame two seconds earlier might’ve been cleaner. The angle’s good, but the depth is better in the one before it. See how the shadows fall off her collarbone?”

The photographer leaned in beside him, surprised. “You notice lighting?”

Allen chuckled, soft. “Passion project. I used to shoot before I modeled. Nothing serious. But I study what I stand in.”

The tech clicked back, pulling up the earlier frame. Allen nodded. “That’s the one. Keep that lighting tone. The overexposed version loses the heat.”

Another image flashed up. Vivian sprawled across the desk, eyes closed, Allen standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder, face half in shadow.

Allen didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly.

“…That one’s dangerous.”

The photographer nodded slowly. “It’s electric.”

Allen glanced at him, a slight grin pulling at his mouth. “It wasn’t supposed to be. The original concept was stiff. Sterile. Greek ruins? CEO? I thought it was going to be laughable.”

“And now?”

Allen leaned back slightly, arms crossed loosely, still watching the monitor. His voice lowered with something like awe.

“Now it’s art.”

He kept scrolling, pointing out minor things—the curve of a shadow on Mila’s thigh, the faint gleam of lip gloss in a close-up, the tension in Vivian’s hand gripping his tie.

He never criticized. Never ordered. Just… spoke.

Thoughtfully. Engaged.

“Your eye’s sharp,” the photographer said. “You ever thought of being behind the lens again?”

Allen’s smile widened slightly. “All the time. But I’m not done being the subject yet.”

He paused on one last image—Mila laughing, Vivian smirking, and himself in the center, shirt unbuttoned, hand tugging slightly at his own tie, eyes half-lidded and locked on the camera.

It was chaos. Lust. Power.

Allen stared at it a second longer.

“…Save that one,” he said quietly. “That’s the one.”

And he meant it.

Because this shoot—this ridiculous, overdone, chaotic morning session under the sun—had somehow become the best thing he’d done in months.

He wasn’t sure how they pulled it off.

But he was satisfied.

Very.

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