CHAPTER 185: D-DAY

Last night had been shockingly tame for a bunch of hormone-charged teenagers with a free mansion and an engagement headline hotter than a Kardashian divorce. Instead of MTV Spring Break, Madison just wanted to curl up on the couch, her head on my chest, like she’d discovered Netflix’s hidden category called Domestic Bliss: Limited Series.

Tommy and Mia? They were off in the game room discovering Madison’s vintage arcade machines, proving that yes, even romance can look like two nerds playing Street Fighter and making out between rounds like an awkward eSports promo.

"I don’t need a wild party," Madison whispered against my neck. "I just need this. You. Us. Real."

Real. God, the way she said it. Like she was auditioning for The Bachelor: Existential Edition. And I ate it up—because nothing turns me on more than being someone’s entire religion.

So we give her "real."

Tommy and Mia left at midnight, and Madison and I fell asleep tangled together, her ring catching the moonlight like the world’s bougiest night-light.

Fast-forward to morning, where we were making up for last night’s restraint by treating her headboard like it was in a demolition derby.

"Ahhh~" Madison moaned, nails digging trenches into my shoulders. I’d be wearing those scratches like merit badges—proof that I survived Hurricane Torres, Category Fiancé.

We drifted into the shower after, steam fogging the glass like we were filming a CW drama that’d definitely get canceled after season one.

"Master," ARIA’s voice purred through my earbuds as I dressed, "yesterday’s trading closed at $73,000 profit. Current positions are up $31,000 in pre-market movement."

Total assets?

"One point three million liquid. Sixty-thousand system points."

Not bad. Would’ve been higher if I hadn’t insisted Isabella and Luna get the Peter Carter experience instead of the Eros™ premium package, but hey—authenticity’s hot. Even if it costs me points.

I adjusted my Tom Ford suit in the mirror: charcoal gray, black shirt, no tie. Top button undone. The kind of look that screams young billionaire about to bankrupt your dad while stealing your girlfriend.

"Damn," Madison said from the doorway, towel wrapped around her like she was shooting a Vogue spread. "My fiancé looks like he eats hedge fund managers for breakfast."

"Only on Tuesdays," I smirked, watching her slip into lingerie like the world’s most expensive weapon. "Today? I’m hunting different prey."

She dropped the towel like it owed her money and slid into La Perla lingerie that probably cost more than the GDP of a small country. "Sofia doesn’t stand a chance."

"Neither does the wellness center interview panel."

"Or the escort agency." She stepped into a cream dress that hugged her like it had signed a prenup. "My future husband, the professional homewrecker."

"Your future husband who needs multiple income streams to keep you in the yacht-and-diamonds lifestyle," I corrected.

"Please." She scoffed, zipping up. "I have money. What I need is entertainment. And watching you systematically seduce every neglected woman in the city? That’s Netflix prestige drama. Priceless."

’This woman. Engaged less than twelve hours and already mapping out my conquest itinerary. Give her a clipboard and she’d run my sex empire like an event planner.’

"Ready for today?" she asked, sliding into heels that added three inches and about ten war crimes of intimidation.

"Born ready. Sofia at two, after both interviews. By tonight, I’ll be professionally employed and Jack Morrison’s girlfriend will be rethinking her entire personality."

"And then his mother," Madison added, eyes gleaming. "My fiancé, the stepdad to the guy who used to bully him. That’s not just revenge—that’s poetry."

We headed to her BMW, the morning air crisp like it knew today was mine. Madison started the engine and I mapped the agenda: wellness center first—suburban housewives desperate for attention, check.

Escort agency second—boring on paper, but with my enhanced skillset? Netflix would greenlight a spin-off. And Sofia... poor, hungry Sofia, dating a boy who thought foreplay was breathing heavy.

"You know," Madison said as we merged into traffic, "most couples spend the day after their engagement arguing about guest lists."

"We’re not most couples."

"No," she agreed, taking my hand like she was claiming stock options. "We’re better. We’re honest about what we want."

"And what do you want?"

"Everything," she said simply. "I want to watch you conquer the world one orgasm at a time. I want to see you break Sofia. I want Jack’s face when he realizes his mom calls you daddy. I want the money, the power, the total destruction of everyone who ever looked down on us."

"That’s a long list."

"Good thing you’re efficient." She squeezed my hand, her diamond pressing into my palm like a brand. "Plus, I’ll be helping. And this isn’t just your empire, Pete. It’s ours."

’Ours. From solo grind to power couple. From nobody to Madison’ Torres’ fiancé with a plan to seduce half the female population. Talk about character development.’

"First stop?" she asked.

"Wellness center. Ten o’clock. Then the agency at noon. Light lunch for stamina. Sofia at two."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight we count money, trade war stories, and plan the sequel."

"I love it when you talk strategy," she purred. "Almost as much as when you put that big guy inside me."

The city blurred past us, all glass and opportunity. Somewhere, neglected wives were buttering toast, unaware their salvation was en route. Somewhere, Sofia was in class, squirming with flashbacks of me rearranging Luna’s soul. And somewhere, Jack Morrison was enjoying the last few hours of his life where his mom didn’t moan my name.

"Hey, Pete?" Madison asked as we neared the wellness center.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For the ring. For the proposal. For not freaking out when I called myself your wife."

"Thank you for saying yes."

"As if there was any other option." She slid into a parking spot like she was parking destiny itself and killed the engine. "Now go. Conquer. Make me proud."

"Always," I promised, leaning over to kiss her. "Always."

I stepped out of the car, Tom Ford cutting sharp against the morning light, and ARIA chimed in through my earbuds: "Master, your first interview begins in fifteen minutes. Shall I brief you on the panel?"

Nah, I can handle this.

"Also," ARIA added, with what could only be described as digital sass, "Ms. Torres is correct. Sofia doesn’t stand a chance."

’None of them do. That’s the point.’

I straightened my suit, checked my reflection in the glass doors like the world’s most dangerous GQ spread, and walked inside like I already owned stock options in the building.

Because soon enough, I would.