Hospitality Man Series II: His Magnificent Specimen (ENGLISH VERSION)

CHAPTER-9

The clock nears five, and the workday is almost over.

Tracking her down has been exhausting. I’ve scoured every possible account, searched through every platform she could have used, but no trace—no hint, no clue—nothing that could lead me to where she is.

I’ve visited almost every social networking site, flipping through pages like a desperate man searching for air, yet still, I find nothing.

Out of options, I let out a slow breath, resigning to defeat as I click back to my own profile. My notifications are flooded, but I ignore them, leaning back against my chair. I tilt my head, closing my eyes as if shutting them tight enough could suppress the growing ache inside me.

Frustration simmers under my skin. I run my fingers through my hair, gripping it tightly until my scalp protests with a sharp sting.

Have I really hurt her this much?

Enough for her to go this far? Enough for her to erase herself from my world completely?

No, I doubt she’d want to see me broken. She loved me more than her own life. I knew that much. She wouldn’t want me shattered—she just wanted me to feel the pain she believed I caused her.

I open my eyes and glance back at the monitor. The list of online chatters is increasing.

Straightening my posture, I shift forward, my fingers instinctively moving the mouse to click the chat window. Over 500 online users. I scroll through the names, searching for anyone—someone—who might know her, someone who might unknowingly drop a clue about where she’s hiding.

Hope flickers, then fades, as name after name passes by, and still, I find nothing.

Sophia and Rex have gone idle. They would have called me the moment they found anything, so I know they’re just as clueless as I am.

I keep scrolling, faster now. The longer I do, the more restless I become. My thoughts scatter, bouncing between desperation and longing. I want them back. I need them back.

At least work keeps me grounded. If anything, this obsession has only made me work harder. After all, I built this company for our future. That was the plan—it always has been.

I scroll past the Q’s, barely sparing them a glance. Who the hell do I even know whose name starts with Q? No one. I speed up, moving on to R.

Then, I freeze.

A familiar name catches my eye.

Ruby.

My pulse kicks up as I click her name, and the chat window pops up on my screen.

Saphire’s best friend.

If anyone can give me a lead, it’s her.

A rush of urgency fuels me as I press my fingers against the keyboard, typing furiously. The words come fast, a mixture of a simple greeting and a desperate plea wrapped in five paragraphs. To me, it looks like a short hello and a small request. To her, I know it will read like a letter—a letter of distress, confession, and nostalgia.

I pray she replies.

My hands clasp together, fingers twisting anxiously as my eyes remain glued to the screen.

Seconds pass.

It feels like hours.

My mind spirals, creating worst-case scenarios. What if she ignores me? What if she refuses to help?

And then—

Ping.

The chat window updates. A reply.

From: Ruby Rodriguez

Subject: Saphire

Date: Tuesday, April 8, 2014, 4:40 PM

To: Pervince Tristan Beaurlington

Perv,

Good day to you.

I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any information about where she is—or rather, where they are.

It’s true that we’ve been in touch for the past five years, but not once has she shared her location with me.

She tells me everything—how she’s been, how she’s raising her son alone—but never where they are. Though, from everything she’s told me, I feel like I know her son. Yet, oddly enough, I don’t even know his name.

She only refers to him as Little Tyke.

Weird, right? But that’s how she’s always been.

I wish I could see her again. But if I did, they’d have to move again—to another place, another life—where no one can find them. It seems they just want to blend in, to live quietly among strangers.

She told me that her son is serene and dazzling. That he’s stunningly beautiful and ridiculously smart for his age. I suppose he got that from you.

It’s a shame, really.

I’m her best friend, yet she won’t even send me a picture of them.

Perv, I’m truly sorry. I don’t think I can help you with this. But you have all my best wishes.

I have to go now. I’ll message you soon.

Take care.

Ruby

As I read her reply, I can’t help but smile, despite everything.

Even after all these years, Saphire hasn’t forgotten. She still calls him Little Tyke.

That was my name for him back when he was just a growing life inside her.

And now, that’s all I have left of him. A name that isn’t even a name.

I stand from my chair, moving toward the glass wall—the only place where my thoughts seem to sharpen.

Based on Ruby’s description, I can almost picture my son.

Serene. Dazzling. Gorgeous.

I doubt that’s all there is to him. But for now, it’s all I have.

I wish I knew his real name. But even Ruby doesn’t.

Maybe I should ask for Saphire’s email address. Maybe—just maybe—I can track her down through that.

Determined, I stride back to my chair and glance at the chat window. My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type.

But then, I notice it.

She’s gone offline.

The weight of disappointment settles in my chest.

At least I know something now. At least I have an idea—something to hold onto.

Little Tyke.

A sigh escapes me as I glance at the clock. It’s already five.

I have somewhere to be.

Following my usual routine, I shut down my PC, switch off the lights and air conditioner. Outside my office, I notice my secretary gathering her things.

Most of my employees work late, staying until eight. But since Paige is my secretary, she leaves when I do—unless I have more work for her.

The office is dim, but faint light filters through the glass walls from the hallway outside.

That’s how I designed it—tinted glass for privacy, except for the door, which has a clear strip so I can see anyone approaching.

With measured steps, I head toward the right side of my office, stopping in front of a large, framed portrait. A picturesque painting—seventeen by twenty-two inches.

I reach for it, carefully lifting it from the wall and setting it down against the floor.

Behind it, hidden from plain sight, is a safe.

And inside—

Inside is the only piece of her that I still have.

I enter the seven-digit combination code, twisting the vault's dial like a seasoned gambler at a roulette table. A faint click echoes, and the small fenestella creaks open, revealing its hidden treasure. Inside, resting against the cold steel, is a black mask—a full-face tiger mask with tufts of fur lining its edges. Beside it, a red robe lies folded, waiting. Without hesitation, I retrieve them both, my fingers grazing the soft fabric as I turn to grab a paper bag tucked near my office cabinet. I place everything inside before emptying my pockets, leaving my wallet and other personal items in the vault, keeping only my phone and enough cash for the ride.

Stepping out of my office, I waste no time. I rush down the stairs, unwilling to let Zoren drive me tonight. A taxi will suffice, but at this hour, finding one proves difficult. With students flooding the streets after class, most cabs linger outside school gates, waiting for fares.

As I make my way through the building, employees bow and bid me goodbye. I return their greetings with a nod, though my eyes refuse to meet theirs. Lily, the receptionist, offers me a sweet smile. I acknowledge her with one of my own—brief, polite, and nothing more.

Just as I reach the exit, luck favors me. A taxi appears in the distance. Without missing a beat, I signal the guard to hail it for me. The vehicle pulls up smoothly at the entrance of my company’s building. I give the guard a quick thanks before slipping into the backseat, shutting the door behind me.

The address rolls off my tongue like a well-rehearsed incantation. The destination: Harem. A place shrouded in secrecy, where only those with wealth and power can step foot. A sanctuary of indulgence, where pleasure costs more than some earn in a lifetime. It is an unspoken paradise, hidden from the eyes of the ordinary world—exclusive, elite, and utterly discreet. I frequent this place not merely to quench my desires but to drown the loneliness that lingers in the recesses of my mind. At times, it feels less like an escape and more like an outlet for my own frustrations.

My encounters there are not random. Each visit is scheduled, each courtesan assigned in advance. The establishment’s owner ensures compatibility, matching us with those best suited to our tastes. Like clockwork, my chosen companion awaits me on predetermined days—our meetings a ritual, an unspoken contract of lust and indulgence.

Despite the exclusivity, I take no risks. I never engage without protection. The world is full of unseen dangers, and I refuse to be reckless. The thought of disease, of irreversible mistakes, is enough to keep me vigilant. There are lines even I won’t cross, no matter how intoxicating the moment.

Halfway there, the city’s towering skyline gives way to a secluded estate. The mansion stands distant yet imposing, shielded by high metal gates and an intricate security system. Guards patrol the perimeter, their hands firm on K-9 leashes, their attire as dark as the secrets held within these walls. Black caps, black gloves, bulletproof vests—an image of silent authority. Surveillance cameras monitor every movement, ensuring that only those who belong may enter.

No one drives inside. All vehicles must halt at the gates. A separate minicar is arranged to escort guests beyond the threshold.

Familiar cars line the outer perimeter, their plates revealing the presence of influential figures. Their owners, too lost in the rush of their own indulgence, fail to realize the risk such exposure brings. Yet, here, no one cares. Status means nothing when pleasure reigns supreme.

The taxi veers toward the estate’s direction. Without delay, I pull the robe over my shoulders, allowing the heavy fabric to drape over me like a cloak of anonymity. Minutes later, I spot the parked luxury cars—a sign that others have already arrived. Before stepping out, I slip the mask over my face, shielding my identity. A glance at the taxi’s meter tells me it’s already 5:45. Time is of the essence.

I hand the driver his fare before making my way to the entrance.

The guard at the gate barely spares me a glance. He recognizes my attire, my mask. No words are exchanged. He presses a button inside his guardhouse, speaking into a microphone. Whatever he says is lost to me, muffled behind closed doors.

Moments later, a minicar approaches. Without hesitation, I step in. The short ride is silent, the air thick with anticipation. Soon, the mansion looms ahead, its grand doors sealed shut. As we arrive, the driver steps out first, moving to open the door for me.

Upon entering, the scene unfolds before me. Figures draped in red robes move about, their masked faces revealing nothing yet speaking volumes in presence. Some engage in quiet conversation, their voices hushed but eager. Others waste no time, disappearing into private chambers with their chosen companions. And then, there are those who have already succumbed to their desires—entwined bodies on the floor, the sofas, the polished marble tables.

A symphony of gasps and moans fills the air, an unabashed display of pleasure. They move in various rhythms—some slow and sensual, others wild and unrestrained. Positions shift, bodies mold against each other, uninhibited by shame or modesty. The masks grant them freedom, a shield from the judgment of the world beyond these walls. Here, identities do not matter. Only indulgence does.

To remove one’s mask is to invite death. A rule unspoken but absolute. No one dares break it.

I pass through without pause, unaffected by the spectacle. Watching others has never been my preference. Nor do I prolong what I seek. With steady strides, I move toward my designated room, slipping through the corridors unnoticed.

Tonight, like every night here, promises to be an escape. A temporary reprieve.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.