Django stared at his fine-looking maid for a good ten minutes.
"Master Django?" she asked, tone sharp but patient.
I fuckin' love that, Django thought with a grin. "Hey yo babe. How 'bout—"
Before he could finish his pickup line, the maid cut him off with such practiced precision it could've been scripted.
"Master Django," she said, not even blinking. "I am employed by the Whitmore family as your personal maid. Not one of your whores. Nor your warm-up act. Nor someone to be flirted into bed just because you like the way my uniform hugs my thighs."
Django blinked, holding up his hands. "Damn. Alright. Professional boundaries. Noted."
She exhaled slowly—less of a sigh and more of a 'this is my life now' kind of breath.
"I'm still gonna compliment you though," he added.
"I assumed as much."
"…and I need two secretaries," he followed up quickly. "Hot ones. One redhead, one blonde. Professional. Smart. And wearing those tight little skirts and fishnets. Like, the classy-slutty kind of corporate."
Selis turned, walking off without a word. But he could feel the eye-roll in her silence.
"Understood," she finally said. "I'll add it to your ridiculous requisition list."
Django watched her walk away, enjoying the view with zero shame.
"Elegant and deadly. Ten outta ten," he murmured. "That stride alone deserves a raise."
Selis POV
Selis Wynthorne moved through the estate halls with the quiet precision of someone who'd long since given up being surprised by anything. But even she had to admit—this one was something else.
When she reached the comm chamber, she activated the private channel and linked in to a secured, encrypted feed.
The screen flickered, and the image of Django's great-great-grandfather filled the crystal display. Wrinkled like ancient parchment, white beard trimmed to perfection, gold-rimmed monocle shining with arcane energy, and eyes that still held way too much mischief for someone over two hundred.
"Ah! Selis, my dear," he said with a roguish smile. "Looking exquisite as ever. Have I mentioned lately you're the reason I still believe in reincarnation?"
Selis's expression didn't move an inch. "Lord Whitmore."
"Don't be so cold, girl. I'm old, not dead."
"I'm aware."
"Now then. How's my degenerate descendant?"
"Surprisingly... focused," Selis replied. "He's already shown signs of planning, accepted the investment chain, and requested a pair of secretaries."
"Of course he did," the old man chuckled. "Let me guess—redhead and blonde?"
Selis nodded once.
"He always did have taste," the old man chuckled. "Honestly, I'm shocked. The boy's starting to take initiative. Asked questions. Checked locations. Took notes. Didn't even hit on the receptionist—yet. That's growth. Dangerous, maybe. But refreshing."
He leaned forward, folding his hands. "You're doing excellent work, by the way. I don't say that lightly. Now, if you want my input—I've got a short list of candidates for those secretary slots."
"Oh?" Selis raised an eyebrow.
"All qualified. All MBA-level or higher. All magically screened. And most importantly, all completely uninterested in having sex with him. That alone makes them worth triple their asking price."
"I'll review them," she said quickly.
"Take your time. Or don't. Depends how long you want to keep watching him try to flirt with you."
Selis ended the call mid-chuckle.
She exhaled through her nose and muttered, "Why are all men in this family like this?"
A few hours later, the office suite Django had rented—top floor, skyview, overkill luxury—was filled with the quiet tension of pre-interview formality. Ten women, each dressed like a Vogue power issue had collided with a grimoire, sat poised in a semi-circle. Polished heels, enchanted eyewear, confidence like perfume.
Every single one had at least an MBA. Some had multiple degrees, certifications in magical administration, dungeon logistics, interdimensional trade law. There was even one who casually summoned her résumé from a binding spell.
Selis stood at the front, clipboard in hand, as she prepared to begin the first round.
"This," she whispered to herself, "is either going to be very productive... or a slow-motion disaster."
She straightened her blazer and looked out over the candidates.
"Ladies, I welcome you all. You've been selected from a narrowed pool of high-tier applicants. This isn't a desk job. This is frontline executive coordination for a Whitmore, which means it's equal parts secretary, fixer, damage control, and magician wrangler.
"Your base salary begins at §140,000 per year, with access to quarterly bonuses depending on loyalty clauses, hazard tolerance, and travel flexibility. Benefits include full healing coverage, mental restoration plans, mana detox stipends, and access to Whitmore Estate housing. Retirement and resurrection options are negotiable after the third year. Magical certification is a plus. Dungeon exposure is probable. Combat-adjacent events are likely. Professionalism is expected. Attire is flexible within taste."
She tapped her clipboard. "Standard contract is one year minimum. Early termination triggers a 15% penalty unless due to verified magical trauma or employer-induced dimensional rift. Confidentiality clauses are enforced by binding seal."
She stepped forward slightly, clipboard in hand.
"Your job is not just to assist—but to anticipate. If you can't manage pressure, attention, or seduction attempts from your employer, you should leave now."
No one moved.
Selis exhaled slowly.
"Good. Let's begin."
She glanced at the first candidate. "Miss Revyn. Let's begin."
The redhead stepped forward—volcanic curls tied back with a velvet band, a body-hugging navy skirt suit with subtle flame-thread enchantment running through the seams. Her smile was warm but calculated.
"Revyn Taal," she said, offering a confident handshake. "MBA from Zarneth Institute, dual specialization in Interplanar Finance and Demonic Contract Law. Former personal strategist to House Faelrin before their collapse."
Selis made a small note. "And what would you say is your greatest strength?"
"Extraction. Information or assets. I get things out—cleanly."
Noted.
Next came a blonde with icy blue eyes and a sleek high bun, every step military-precise. Her gray pencil skirt suit looked like it had been sharpened.
"Valis Schnee," she said in a clipped tone. "Graduate of Astra Magna. Triple-certified in Advanced Market Reading, Battlefield Accounting, and Magical Asset Appraisal. Zero tolerance for inefficiency or flirtation."
Selis blinked. "You'll love your boss."
Valis didn't smile.
Third candidate—tall, dark skin, braided hair looped through mana rings, and an off-shoulder blazer that flirted with inappropriate but landed squarely in intimidating.
"Name's Kaede," she said with a grin. "I don't do titles. I do results. Worked logistics for the Midas Dungeon Guild, ran a war camp's supply lines through three monster sieges, and taught a fire elemental how to use spreadsheets."
Selis raised a brow. "Seriously?"
"Swear on my last paycheck. She's my intern now."
Next was a silver-haired elf named Auvriah, wearing a tailored lavender suit with rune-lined cuffs. She spoke softly, but directly.
"Auvriah Tel'mara. My resume has already been transferred to your device via mind-link. I specialize in memetic filing, arcane transcription, and memory recall documentation. I'm fluent in nine languages, including Ancient Abyssal and Trade Cant."
"Telepathy for meeting minutes?" Selis asked.
Auvriah nodded. "No one forgets an assignment when I'm around."
Following her was a demure woman with short silver horns curled backward and charcoal-black eyes that missed nothing. She wore a deep crimson business dress, heels that shimmered when she walked, and her voice was calm enough to chill tea.
"Zhaeli Vein. Master's in Integrated Finance and Magical Compliance. I worked eight years for the Draconis Banking Guild as their internal auditor. I can spot fraud, sabotage, or enchanted interference within three minutes of reviewing a contract."
"And hobbies?"
"I knit," she said simply. "And decurse things."
Selis blinked. "Of course."
The last was a tall, bronze-skinned woman draped in gold accents and desert-silk robes, hair braided in intricate coils. Her walk was fluid, her smile disarming.
"Layla Khenari. Raised in the City of Glass. I've closed negotiations in six languages—no magic. I read body language better than truth spells and I don't flinch under pressure. I once convinced a Beholder to sign a service contract."
Selis stared.
"I offered to handle its taxes. It's still a client."
Next came a pale woman in obsidian-toned robes and crimson lipstick, hair black as a void spell and eyes like moonstone.
"Virelle Dusk. Licensed necro-accountant. Former tax advisor to House Umbra. I handle dead assets—literally and financially."
"You mean estates?" Selis asked.
"Sometimes still haunted," Virelle replied with a cool shrug. "I charge extra for exorcisms."
After her was a soft-spoken girl in a warm brown blazer, with round glasses and golden eyes that didn't blink nearly enough.
"Marcy Vale," she said shyly. "I do behavioral analysis. Specialize in boss behavior. I've written two papers on managing difficult executives with… eccentric tastes."
Selis raised an eyebrow. "Like…?"
"Like the one who tried to fund a dungeon made entirely of wine fountains," Marcy deadpanned. "It exploded. Twice."
Then came a woman in a matte black suit with enchanted high heels that never made a sound. Her ponytail was razor-straight, her nails gleamed with micro-runes.
"Rina Vox," she said. "Magitech ops and executive defense. I carry, I scan, I block psychic attacks. I've worked for madmen, warlocks, and two demigods."
"Reasons for leaving?"
"One imploded, one combusted, and the last tried to date me."
Selis nodded. "Understood."
The final candidate stood with arms crossed, lean frame wrapped in a relaxed blazer and slacks combo, her expression somewhere between bored and too experienced.
"Nyra," she said simply. "I don't do fluff. I don't do nonsense. You need someone to cut through chaos, lock a schedule, and slap reality into people? I'm that woman."
Selis lowered her clipboard.
"…That concludes the round." The maid looked at the woman gathered around with a serious expression on her beautiful face.
"Do any of you ladies have any questions regarding your employer or your duties?"
There was a long silence. A few exchanged glances. One raised an eyebrow. But no one spoke.
"Very well," Selis said. "Remain here. Final selections will be made shortly. Until then, please make yourselves comfortable—but do not leave the room."
She marked their scores, catalogued their quirks, and held back another sigh.
Applicants POV
The moment Selis exited the office, the room's silence cracked like a dropped spell crystal.
Revyn Taal stretched out her legs and crossed them with a sigh. "So... what kind of Whitmore do you think it is?"
Valis Schnee didn't look up from her magically projected planner. "Does it matter? They're all high-maintenance ego-fountains."
Kaede grinned, arms behind her head as she leaned back in her seat. "Yeah, but there's levels to the madness. I just want to know if this guy's the kill-you-with-a-smile type or the 'let's buy a dungeon and forget it exists' type."
Auvriah blinked slowly. "Statistically speaking, there's an 82% chance it's someone who thinks charm is a substitute for strategy."
"Oh, so he's hot and stupid," Zhaeli said, folding her hands neatly on her lap.
"Possibly," Layla added. "Though the fact we were recruited this fast tells me someone upstairs is trying to put a leash on him. Probably means he's either dangerous or an actual asset they can't control."
Virelle glanced around. "I vote feral heir. The kind that spends money to solve emotions."
"Maybe he's a playboy with a redemption arc," Marcy chimed in softly.
Everyone turned to stare.
Marcy blushed. "Sorry. I like hopeful narratives."
Rina scoffed. "Hopeful doesn't pay hazard bonuses."
Nyra, seated near the back with her arms still crossed, finally opened her eyes. "Does anyone else find it suspicious we haven't seen him yet?"
Revyn shrugged. "Could be a power move."
"Could be he's still hungover," Kaede added.
"Could be both," Layla said with a smirk.
The room fell into a more casual rhythm. Heels came off. Jackets unbuttoned. Glamour spells dimmed. But the curiosity hung thick in the air.
Auvriah projected a small image of the Whitmore family tree, and several of them gathered around.
"Could be Lord Jaxen's grandson," Zhaeli mused.
"No, that one's dead," Virelle said absently.
"Then the bastard son of that political liaison?" Kaede asked.
"Too competent," Valis replied.
Marcy tilted her head. "What if he's new? Like… just claimed?"
Rina raised a brow. "Untrained? That'd explain the silence. No real-world record."
"Untrained and rich?" Nyra muttered. "That's a recipe for property damage."
"You're all judging before even meeting him," Layla said. "Maybe he's just... different."
A pause.
Then Revyn grinned. "We'll know soon enough."
The door opened, and Selis returned—pushing a sleek, wheeled device that hovered just inches off the floor. The body was obsidian-black, covered in shifting hexagonal runes that softly pulsed with mana. At the top, a crystalline sphere rotated slowly in a suspension field, threading bright lines of light into a focused glyph array.
The room's ambient mana bent subtly toward it—drawn in like a tide pulled by a second moon. As it reached the center of the office, it stabilized with a quiet chime and a soft resonant hum.
Several of the applicants leaned forward, blinking.
"Is that a triple-core hologlyph emitter?" Auvriah asked aloud.
"Mana-fed," Virelle added, eyes narrowing with interest. "Looks military-grade."
Rina tilted her head. "Mana-tethered projectors like that aren't legal for civilian markets. Someone rewrote procurement law—or ignored it entirely."
Several women stared. Eyes widened. Auvriah leaned forward.
"Is that a Class-V hologlyph core?"
"Integrated mana-thread logic," Virelle murmured. "High-end. Not civilian grade."
Rina squinted. "Wait… is that projecting aether-threaded resolution?"
Before anyone could say more, the projector lit up and cast a massive, 3D hologram above the room.
It was a still image.
Django, shirt open, sunglasses on, lounging back in a glittering poolside cabana. One hand held a frosted cocktail. The other? Firmly placed on the thigh of a supermodel-tier beauty straddling his lap.
Selis groaned aloud.
"Master Django... why, why, WHY is there a model sitting on your lap in the official introduction projection!?"
The hologram shimmered, and Django's voice came through, smooth as ever.
"This is my projection girl. She speak for me. Aight? Hana, please tell the ladies who this handsome bastard is and also—tell 'em who's the hottest in this room."
The model turned her head, lips curling into a sultry smirk.
"Ladies," Hana said in a smoky voice, "I present to you, Master Django Whitmore. Billionaire. Playboy. Dungeon-registered investor. Partial reason for the dress code. And yes—he did wake up like this."
The entire room went silent.
Marcy coughed. "I think I just understood the assignment."