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Star Wars: Eyes of God Chapter 17 — Rich Lifestyle
🕑 Added 2025-12-13 05:54:16 +0000 UTC
Kyle stood on a raised dais in the center of the main lounge, a heavy crystal tumbler cradled in one hand. Inside the glass swirled a measure of Alderaanian starfire brandy, vintage 560 BBY, one of only a thousand bottles known to exist. The liquid caught the light and threw fractured prisms across the room each time he tilted the glass. The aroma alone, rich, smoky, with hints of spice and charred cherry, filled the air around him.
Around the dais hovered Master Tailor Gavren Viken, the most sought-after clothier on Coruscant, along with three assistants. Gavren himself, a thin, silver-haired human, circled Kyle with the reverence usually reserved for royalty. The garment currently being fitted was midnight black with subtle crimson threading that caught the light only when Kyle moved. The jacket fell to mid-thigh, cut sharp at the shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist before flaring again in a subtle tail. Beneath it, a high-collared tunic of the same fabric hugged his torso, while trousers broke cleanly over polished boots that gleamed like liquid obsidian. The entire ensemble looked as though it belonged on the cover of a holozine, yet Kyle turned slowly in front of the triple mirror, brow furrowed.
"It's stunning," he admitted, rolling one shoulder to test the range of motion, "but if someone takes a shot at me, will I just die looking fabulous?"
Gavren's laugh came out lightly, and he stepped forward, fingers brushing the lapel with pride. "Mr. Marek, allow me to demonstrate why this piece costs what it does."
He tapped a discreet panel at the cuff. Instantly, the fabric stiffened in precise segments, forming flexible plates across the chest, back, and forearms. "Class-A personal shielding woven directly into the weave. It will stop three standard blaster bolts at full charge or one heavy bolt before the capacitors require thirty seconds to recharge. The outer layer is micro-abrador mesh; vibroblades lose thirty percent of their edge on first contact and are rendered useless after the second strike. The inner lining contains kinetic gel that disperses impact force across the entire garment, so even a slugthrower round to the size of your thumb will feel like a firm punch rather than a fatal wound."
Kyle raised an eyebrow. Gavren continued without pause.
"Collar and cuffs contain concealed flex-cuffs and monomolecular wire garrotes. Boots have magnetic clamps. The belt buckle doubles as an ion disruptor capable of stunning droids within a five-meter radius. And, of course, the entire garment is climate-controlled, self-cleaning, and self-repairing at the molecular level."
Kyle turned again, this time drawing an imaginary saber from his hip and flowing through a quick Ataru flourish. The jacket moved with him as though it had been painted on, no binding, no drag. He stopped in a low guard stance, then spun into a high block.He met his own eyes in the mirror, Rinnegan patterns swirling faintly beneath the transformation jujutsu that kept them hidden from casual view, and a slow grin spread across his face.
"Add it to the order," he said. "On top of everything else."
Gavren's eyes lit up with the gleam of a man who had just moved an obscene amount of credits. "An excellent choice, Mr. Marek. Truly excellent. May I suggest a few additional enhancements while we are here? The newest line includes a neural-linked hood that deploys in half a second and provides full facial obfuscation and full-spectrum sensor jamming. We also offer subdermal comms woven into the collar lining, voice modulation on demand, and a personal med-stims patch that can seal a blaster wound and deliver painkillers in under four seconds."
Kyle took another sip of the starfire brandy, savoring the burn. "All of it," he said. "Money is no object tonight, but I'll need to take this suit out as I'm going out tonight."
Gavren bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the marble. "You honor me, sir. My house will speak of this commission for decades."
At that moment the bedroom doors slid open with a soft hiss. Zarni stepped through, or rather glided, into the lounge. The gown she wore was liquid silver shot through with threads of pale sapphire, cut low in front and lower in back, the fabric clinging to every curve before cascading into a short train that shimmered like starlight on water. A slit climbed to mid-thigh on the left side, revealing the toned length of her leg with each step. Her purple hair had been swept up in an elaborate twist threaded with tiny diamonds that caught the light and threw it back in soft rainbows. She looked like living wealth.
Kyle let out a low whistle. "You trying to kill me before dinner?"
Zarni's smile curved up. She turned, deliberately, letting the gown swirl around her legs. "If I'd known dressing like this would shut you up, I'd have done it weeks ago."
"You look like you were born in a palace," he said.
"And you," she countered, stepping close enough that the scent of her perfume, something expensive and faintly spicy, wrapped around him, "look like a prince, but knowing you it can't possibly be true." She smiled.
Kyle smiled back before he glanced at the chrono projected on the wall. "We have reservations in twenty minutes." He turned to Gavren and the assistants, who stood waiting with the reverence of acolytes. With a flick of his wrist he transferred a tip, five thousand credits each, straight to their accounts. The tailors' eyes widened; one actually gasped.
"Thank you for your artistry," Kyle said. "You may go."
They bowed, murmured effusive gratitude, quickly left out of the elevator with the door shut behind them. Zarni snorted, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and raising one perfect eyebrow. "Look at you, Mr. Marek, tipping like a Aldeeranian lord, strutting around in clothes that cost more than most people's homes. One week ago you were sleeping on my couch and eating instant food packs. Now you're living like some Core-world royal. You're really leaning into this whole rich-guy thing, aren't you?"
Kyle lifted his tumbler in a lazy salute, the brandy catching the light again. "I bled for every credit in that account," he said,. "If I'm going to be rich, I'm going to enjoy every single moment of it. Delicacies for breakfast, clothes that can stop blaster bolts, a bed big enough for an orgy, and the most beautiful woman on Coruscant on my arm. I earned this."
Zarni's smirk softened into something warmer. She stepped close, fingers brushing the lapel of his new jacket. "You did," she admitted. "And you look good doing it."
Kyle set the glass down, caught her wrist, and pulled her flush against him. "Dinner first," he murmured against her ear. "Then I'm going to spend the rest of the night finding every single way this dress can come off."
Zarni giggled. "I'm counting on it."
Together they walked toward the private turbolift, the city lights glittering below like scattered jewels, the galaxy waiting to see what Kyle Marek would do with the fortune, and the power, he had just claimed for himself.
The private turbolift carried them down from the penthouse in a smooth descent. When the doors parted, an attendant bowed and guided them across the marble foyer to the rooftop landing terrace. A sleek, matte-black limousine-speeder waited there, its gull-wing doors already open, the interior lit by soft amber strips that ran along the ceiling and floor. The chauffeur, a tall human in an immaculate charcoal uniform, stood at attention beside the vehicle. He inclined his head the moment Kyle and Zarni appeared.
"Good evening, Mr Marek, Ms Voss. The Skylight Spire awaits your pleasure."
Kyle gave the man a nod and handed Zarni into the speeder first. She slid across the supple leather, the slit of her gown parting to reveal a long expanse of thigh before she crossed her legs. Kyle followed, settling beside her as the doors sealed with a whisper and the vehicle lifted off the pad, banking smoothly into the glittering traffic lanes high above the city.
For the first few minutes Kyle simply watched the towers slide past the tinted viewport. A week had passed since the night the Asura Path awakened inside him. Seven full days. In that time he had trained with the new ability every morning in the warehouse he had went to, manifesting mechanical limbs, chakra cannons, and vibrating missile clusters until the motions came as naturally as breathing, though sadly he didn't train his elemental jutsu as much. Yet those sessions rarely lasted longer than an hour. After that he surrendered to the life he had bought.
Because when you had to choose between eating breakfast off of a naked Zarni on the balcony while the sun rose over the Senate District. Midday shopping trips to boutiques. Evenings spent in private boxes at the Galaxies Opera House or at invitation-only gambling salons where the minimum bet started at six figures. Nights blurred into a parade of silk sheets, imported liquors, and women, Zarni's most often, though on two occasions he had hired the most exclusive companions Coruscant could offer and turned the master bedroom into a writhing orgy. Forty-three million credits still sat in his primary account, and every withdrawal felt like a victory lap.
He had meant to buy a proper starship. He had meant to begin the systematic dismantling of the Blood Oracle. Instead he had purchased three more tailored wardrobes, rare vintages, and memories that would have made his younger self on Earth weep with envy. The Oracle could wait. Varkis Voss could wait. Kyle Marek was busy living the life he had stolen for himself.
A warm hand settled on his thigh and began a slow, deliberate slide upward.
Zarni's fingers traced lazy circles through the fabric of his trousers, nails scraping lightly. Kyle turned his head. She watched him from beneath half-lowered lashes, lips curved in a knowing smile. The neckline of her gown had slipped just enough that the inner curves of her breasts pressed together, the soft flesh rising and falling with each breath.
"If you keep that up," he said, "this dress is going to end the night on the floor of the speeder instead of the hotel."
Zarni's smile widened. She leaned forward and rapped twice on the privacy partition. The tinted panel slid up with a soft click, sealing them off from the chauffeur. Without another word she shifted in the seat, bent at the waist, and drew down the zip of his trousers. His cock, already half-hard from her teasing, sprang free into the cool cabin air. She wrapped her fingers around the base, gave one slow pump, and then took him into her mouth in a single smooth motion.
The heat was incredible. Her lips sealed tight around his shaft, tongue pressing flat against the underside as she sank lower, lower, until her nose brushed his abdomen. She held there for a heartbeat, throat working around him, before pulling back with deliberate inches at a time, saliva trailing in glistening strands. When only the head remained between her lips she sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, then plunged down again, faster, wetter, the sounds obscene in the quiet cabin.
Kyle's head fell back against the headrest. One hand found her hair, not guiding, simply resting there as she set a punishing rhythm. She alternated deep strokes with quick, shallow bobs that focused on the sensitive ridge beneath the crown, her free hand rolling his balls with expert pressure. Saliva spilled over her chin, dripped onto the leather seat, soaked the front of her gown where her breasts swayed with each movement. She moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight to his spine, and the pace became frantic.
He lasted less than two minutes. With a guttural groan he came, hips jerking as thick pulses flooded her mouth. Zarni swallowed every drop, throat working visibly, until he was spent. Only then did she pull off with a soft pop, wiping her lips with the back of her hand and offering him a satisfied smirk.
"Maybe we should skip dinner," Kyle managed.
Zarni tucked him back into his trousers and zipped him up with deliberate care. "Nuh-uh. I am a fancy lady now. Fancy ladies get courted properly before they get ruined."
Kyle laughed despite himself. "Someone's adapting to the rich lifestyle awfully fast." He said mockingly in her voice.
She settled back into her seat, smoothing the front of her gown as though she had not just swallowed him whole. "Please. This is the lifestyle I was born for. I just mistakenly happened to be born poor."
The privacy partition lowered and the chauffeur's voice came through. "We are arriving at the Skylight Spire, sir, ma'am."
They looked out the viewport together. The restaurant occupied the top two hundred floors of a needle-thin tower that pierced the clouds like a blade of light. Every level glowed; waterfalls of liquid crystal cascaded down the outer walls, refracting the city's neon into rainbows that danced across the sky. Landing platforms ringed the upper floors like petals, each one reserved for a single guest. Their speeder eased onto the highest private pad. The moment the doors opened, a small army of staff in pristine white-and-gold livery materialized. The head concierge, a willowy Pantoran woman with sapphire skin and a smile polished to perfection, stepped forward and bowed so deeply her forehead nearly touched the deck.
"Mr Marek, Ms Voss, welcome to the Skylight Spire. Your table is ready. Please, allow us to escort you."
Attendants flanked them on every side as they walked the short carpeted path to the doors. The platinum doors parted and Kyle stepped through first, offering Zarni his arm as she rose from her chair. A narrow bridge of translucent crystal stretched ahead of them, suspended in open air between floating platforms. Beneath their feet, the entire restaurant unfolded in layers of light and motion. Each table hovered on its own repulsor disk, drifting slowly in an endless, graceful waltz around the central spire. Waterfalls of liquid crystal cascaded from the ceiling hundreds of meters above, vanishing into mist long before they reached the lower levels. The air itself carried faint notes of frost-orchid and smoked nebula-truffle, scents engineered to heighten appetite and relax inhibitions in perfect balance.
Every patron occupied a private island of luxury. Kyle recognized faces immediately. Chancellor Palpatine sat at a table near the eastern edge with Senator Padmé Amidala at his side; both of them inclined their heads in polite acknowledgment when Kyle's gaze passed over them—which he wouldn't lie both excfired and scared the shit out of him, he didn't want Palpatines attention on him in the slightest, but he would absolutely take Padmes. At another platform, the Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore dined with a small entourage of pacifist senators. Further still, the heiress of the Kuat Drive Yards laughed behind a fan of living butterflies.
Yet for all the recognizable faces, the restaurant's true draw lay in its cuisine, dishes that existed nowhere else in the galaxy and could never be replicated. The Skylight Spire employed culinary artists who spent years cultivating ingredients on private moons, in zero-gravity orchards, or inside the stomachs of deep-space leviathans that filtered rare minerals from asteroid fields. A single meal for two routinely cleared one hundred thousand credits, and reservations were booked solid for the next nine years.
A soft chime sounded as their personal server appeared, a willowy Arkanian female whose silver hair floated weightlessly around her head. She bowed with fluid grace.
"Mr Marek, Ms Voss, welcome to the Spire. Tonight Chef Veyrahn has prepared a progression of twenty-one courses, each paired with a vintage chosen from our orbital cellars. May I present the specials?"
She gestured and holographic plates materialized above the table.
"First, petals of dawn-lily harvested from the dark side of Iego, flash-frozen at the exact moment of bioluminescent peak and served atop a single tear of nectar from the Sarlacc of Tatooine. Second, a sphere of compressed nebulae gas that bursts on the tongue into the flavor unique to each guest. Third, filet of void-whale heart, aged in the vacuum of the Maw Cluster for thirty rotations, served with a reduction of elderwine distilled on Rishi."
Kyle's eyes flicked down the list until they landed on the final entry. He pointed without hesitation.
"We will have that one as well," he said, voice calm. "The Heart of the Eternal Flame."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the restaurant. Even the string quartet faltered for half a beat. The server's composure never slipped, though her pupils widened a fraction.
"An exquisite choice, sir. The Heart is harvested from a single fire-drake that lives within the photosphere of the Kessa Beacon star. Only one creature exists, and only one gram is removed every decade. Tonight's portion is the first served in twelve years. It will be ten million credits."
Conversation at nearby tables stilled. Palpatine turned fully in his chair. Padmé's hand rose to her throat. Many others lips parted in something that might have been shock or respext.
Kyle merely nodded. "Bring it."
Zarni leaned close. "You just ordered dinner that costs more than most planets' defense budgets."
He answered with a small, private smile. "I intend to enjoy every credit."
The courses began to arrive in a procession of wonder. Petals that dissolved into memories of summer rain on Naboo. Spheres of nebula that tasted, for Kyle, of his favourite food on Earth and, for Zarni, of sun-warmed cake on Ryloth. Cubes of void-whale heart that melted into velvet smoke across the tongue, paired with wine that had been aged inside a comet's tail. Between courses, entertainment drifted through the air. Acrobats from Zeltros performed impossible contortions on floating silk ribbons. A pair of Falleen dancers moved in perfect synchronization. Yet when the central platform dimmed and a single spotlight ignited, every other act faded into shadow.
She stepped into the light and the restaurant itself seemed to hold its breath.
The singer stood taller than most humans, her skin a deep indigo that shifted to violet at the edges like oil on water. Four slender arms unfolded from her torso with graceful symmetry, each tipped with fingers that ended in delicate, glowing pads. Long tentacles of silver-white hair floated around her head as though she stood underwater, and when she opened her mouth the voice that emerged was layered, harmonic, impossible, as though three throats sang in perfect counterpoint. Kyle recognized the species at once: a Siren of the Thalassian Reach, a race so rare that most scholars believed them myth. Her gown appeared woven from living starlight, clinging to curves that defied every standard of beauty he had ever known.
Zarni's hand found his beneath the table and squeezed. "I take back every complaint I ever made," she whispered. "I would sell my soul to hear that voice every night."
The final course arrived on a disk of black glass carried by six servers in perfect unison. At its center rested the Heart of the Eternal Flame: a single, glowing ember the size of a child's fist, pulsing with inner fire. When Kyle's fork touched it, the ember parted like silk, revealing a core of molten gold that cooled instantly into a substance that tasted of sunrise and lightning and every heated moment he ever lived, when he'd first fucked, when he had first killed, when he had gotten angry, passionate, it was as if all those memories combined and amplifiedd. The flavor lingered long after the plate was empty, until tears stood unashamed in the eyes of half the patrons.
Spontaneous applause erupted, then cheers, then a standing ovation that rolled through the floating tables like thunder. Even Palpatine rose and began to clap.
Kyle and Zarni joined the applause, laughing at the absurdity of it all. 'Fucking rich people...'
When the plates were cleared and the wine had settled into a warm glow on their stomachs, Kyle stood and offered Zarni his hand. "Walk with me."
They left their table and drifted toward the central spire where the Siren still sang. Around her, a vast circular dance floor of polished onyx floated in zero-gravity, couples and solitary dancers turning slowly in the air as though submerged in water. Gravity returned only at the edges, allowing guests to step on or off at will.
Kyle pulled Zarni close the moment they reached the floor. The music shifted, the Siren's voice weaving through notes that bypassed the ears entirely and resonated in their bodies themselves. They moved with their bodies pressed together, her curves fitting against him as though designed for that sole purpose. Around them the elite of the galaxy watched.
Zarni's laughter brushed his ear. "I never want to leave."
Kyle spun her once, catching her again. "We don't have to. Not for a while at least."
(AN: This is Kyle enjoying the fruits of his labour. One mistake I make a lot on my stories is not allowing the MCs to enjoy their life, they basically just get sent from one shit show to the other. Now while I'm not going to make this a slice of life i think it's important to enjoy these moments. Also for anyone who thinks Zarni is a gold digger you'd be right. But she also supported Kyle when he had nothing, so I think she's alright.)
Comments
Sin Vergil
In all fairness to you that's a problem that a lot of writers I see run into. They never give a genuine sense of satisfaction to anything that happens to the protagonist. And it take so long to get to that satisfaction that most readers will just give up before then.
