CHAPTER 205: COMING HOME TO EMPIRE

The morning sun hit my face like a spotlight—God Himself cross-examining me. Honestly, I probably looked like I’d been mugged by insomnia and then left for dead by a particularly vindictive ex. My reflection in the car window had showed bags under my eyes big enough to smuggle contraband through airport security.

My body? Overcooked pasta—shake me wrong and I’d collapse into a tragic heap of gluten.

Last night had been Sofia’s corruption in the old house—Jack Morrison’s princess reduced to a hymn of betrayal under the same roof that once held my bruises. Afterward at 1AM., I drove her home like some supernatural Uber driver who accepts orgasms instead of tips.

Then I stayed in that childhood mausoleum because closure demanded it. Or maybe vengeance did. Hard to tell the difference these days.

And now here I stood, staring at Carter Mansion looking like death reheated in a microwave.

The mansion rose out of the earth like scripture carved in limestone—warm stone and glass instead of the usual billionaire goth-black cliché. Cream-colored walls caught the morning light and threw it back like shards of heaven. Three stories of fuck-you money, though elegant enough to make it look like destiny instead of excess.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the structure like it wanted to show off every angle. And it did. Mansions don’t get modest.

The neighborhood was what real estate agents probably called "exclusive"—translation: rich people hiding from poor people behind eight-foot walls and security systems that cost more than most people’s cars. Our nearest neighbor sat directly across the street, and Jesus Christ, their place made ours look like a starter home.

Some kind of modern fortress that stretched across what had to be three lots, all black steel and intimidating glass.

Mom swore she’d heard voices in there, but in four days I hadn’t seen a gardener, a driver, not even a drone delivery. Ghosts or gods—nothing in between.

I pressed my palm against the biometric scanner at the gate, wincing as the bright security light scanned my retina.

The system ARIA had installed didn’t just read fingerprints—it analyzed bone structure, blood flow, even micro-expressions. If someone tried to force me to unlock this place, the scanner would detect stress markers and lock down harder than Fort Knox having a bad day.

Beep.

"Welcome home, Master," ARIA purred, her voice halfway between respect and mockery. "You look like absolute shit, by the way."

"Love you too, sweetheart," I muttered.

The gates parted with the smoothness of expensive German engineering. Inside, the driveway stretched wide enough to house an invading army, circling a fountain that glistened like liquid crystal. Not tacky angels pissing water into seashells—just clean geometry, the kind of understated arrogance money buys when it’s truly confident.

Mom’s Mercedes GLE sat parked in the drive, looking like it belonged there. Six months ago, she was coupon-clipping to decide whether we could afford name-brand cereal. Now? The car looked like it had always been hers.

I could’ve gone through the grand entrance—massive doors carved from wood probably older than the Ten Commandments—but Madison had dubbed the side garage door my "late-night entrance." She wasn’t wrong. It fed straight into my wing, bypassing Mom’s anxious questions about where I’d been, who I’d ruined, and why I smelled like sex.

The side door unlocked automatically, recognizing my steps before I touched it. Inside, the hallway greeted me like the world’s most expensive hotel: hardwood floors, recessed lights, silence so thick it felt curated. But I wasn’t here for the tour.

At the end of the hall was the only door that mattered. My bedroom. My sanctum. The place where I could collapse, recharge, and maybe—just maybe—dream of Madison instead of Sofia.

ARIA’s sarcasm cut in with the mixture of care. "Seduction System Update: Carter Compound Secure. Eros Home. Phase One Complete. Rest Recommended Before Further Conquests."

I’d deliberately claimed the master suite on the ground floor rather than the many rooms upstairs, not because I feared stairs—gods do not pant climbing steps—but because it was the only room in this mansion worthy of me. Privacy, yes. But more than that: it was a throne room disguised as a bedroom.

The space opened like a cathedral built to worship my existence. Thirty-foot ceilings with beams older than the nation, a fireplace wide enough to roast whole sinners instead of pigs, and windows stretching from floor to heaven, spilling light onto a garden manicured like Eden for resale.

And the bed—my altar. "King-size" undersold it; kings would weep at this thing. It could host a small family or one very devoted cult.

Dark leather headboard, Egyptian cotton sheets so fine they whispered when you touched them, pillows engineered by angels who clearly hated the poor. It wasn’t just a place to sleep—it was an invitation to collapse, to submit, to confess.

A sitting area near the fire boasted leather chairs worth more than sedans, but who the hell sits when conquest is the real furniture? The bathroom beyond could hold an orgy without anyone elbowing for space, the shower big enough for three betrayals at once, the tub a lagoon for baptisms in sin.

But right now I only saw the altar. My body—running on fumes, wrung dry from Sofia’s corruption. Worth every second. She’d been groomed for this, waxed for this, trembling for this. The mission was clear: Perfect Liberation, one heiress at a time. And Sofia? Permanently marked. Branded with my ruin.

I didn’t bother undressing. Gods don’t need ceremony to collapse. Shoes off, face-first into silk that kissed my skin like it had been spun solely for me. The mattress embraced me with the devotion of a zealot—eager, obedient, begging to be used. My bones sighed, my muscles unclenched, my very marrow whispered thank you.

Sleep hit me like divine judgment: sudden, merciless, absolute. No dreams, no whispers from the System, no chessboard of strategy unfolding in my mind. Just black, blessed oblivion. A god’s rest.

Welcome home, indeed.

*

But even in oblivion, reality bent to me. The sound of reality TV chatter slithered through the mansion—cheap drama echoing off priceless walls. Normally, this fortress swallowed noise whole. But my senses had sharpened all week, predatory awareness replacing mortal dullness. Three rooms away, and I could hear every laugh, every fake gasp, every clink of wine glass.

Sleep was a human luxury. Predators don’t sleep. They wait.

After a shower that felt less like rinsing off and more like being baptized in liquid silk (rich people water pressure is basically a crime against the poor), I strolled into my walk-in closet—the one larger than the living room of our old house, which, in hindsight, should have been condemned as "poverty cosplay."

White knit polo, navy trousers. Casual, but the kind of casual that says I could buy your neighborhood before lunch and still be home in time for wine o’clock. Rich without trying. Rich enough to forget effort was ever a concept.

The living room ate half the ground floor. Not just wealth—statement wealth. Sprawling sectional the size of a third-world village, glass walls showing off a wine collection that screamed "colonizer chic," and the crown jewel: an 85-inch screen mounted so perfectly flush it looked like the house had birthed it.

Except it wasn’t just a screen. Humanity was still tripping over 16K prototypes like toddlers learning to walk, but ARIA and I had already gone full Prometheus. Two days after moving in, we gutted the thing, rewired its nervous system, and rebuilt it into something sharper than reality itself. Even the aired poorly captured content, ours enhanced it.

When it powered on, the pixels didn’t just glow—they threatened to sue God for copyright infringement.

But the sight of Emman took my breath away.

Emma didn’t just occupy the sectional—she consumed it. Satin pajamas clung to her like a forbidden confession, the fabric so thin it revealed every dip and swell beneath. Recessed lights kissed the liquid sheen, highlighting the dangerous geography she offered to the room.

She was hot!

*

A/N:The next Chapter will show very well how Emma looks like since i have never shown you guys.