CHAPTER 224: CRAZY HAREM

The laughter that erupted wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t fake. It was the kind of laughter that tastes like gasoline before the match hits. Joy, lust, anticipation—seven women already mine, already orbiting, already waiting for the finale.

And me? I wasn’t just Peter Carter anymore. I was the ringmaster of the most dangerous, unholy, god-tier circus on Earth.

"Actually," Anya said, business brain clicking, "I want to start a bet on how many women he’s going to add to our group while he’s in Miami."

Without hesitation, I dove in first. "I’ll bet ten hundred thousand dollars that I’m getting absolutely nobody."

Seven pairs of eyes froze like I’d just said I was switching to Android. Then—detonation. The whole call burst into laughter, the kind that makes neighbors bang on walls.

"You’re betting against yourself?" Luna asked, scandalized like I’d just confessed to using 2014 hashtags in 2025.

"Free money!" Janet whooped. "I’m definitely taking that bet."

"Since we all know he’s definitely getting at least one woman, we should all be winners," Elena said matter-of-factly. "So we divide the money equally, right?"

Madison smirked like Wall Street’s evil twin. "Or we make it interesting—everyone puts in money, but whoever guesses the exact number gets fifty percent of the pot."

"You guys seriously don’t think I can show some fucking restraint?" I asked, mock offended, clutching my imaginary pearls.

Every face turned toward me with the same look my mom gave me when I said I’d only have one drink.

"Not when it comes to women," Victoria said flatly, like a court ruling.

"Absolutely not," Anya chimed in.

"Zero chance," Isabella deadpanned.

It was like being roasted on Comedy Central, except the panel was my personal harem.

"The fuck! You don’t think I can restrain myself?"

They didn’t even dignify that with words. Just synchronized headshakes, like I’d asked if Kanye was about to have a chill year.

I laughed and grabbed my other phone—yeah, plural phones, don’t judge—sending ten grand to Isabella, Janet, and Luna. "Alright, you beautiful degenerates, put your money where your mouths are."

Isabella and Janet slapped down two grand each, grinning like Powerball winners about to buy tacky yachts. The wellness center crew followed, and then Madison went nuclear: ten thousand on me bagging three women total.

"Three in one night?" Anya scoffed. "That’s not even physically possible."

Janet nearly spit her wine. "You clearly don’t know our man yet. He pulled you three in one day at the wellness center, and that was before he even clocked in for work."

That shut Anya up real quick.

"You know what?" Janet declared, eyes blazing with milf-confidence. "Fuck it, I’m betting on eleven women by the time he’s back. Maybe one just for tonight."

My grin split wide. "I love you, Janet! You have such beautiful expectations for me. You’re basically the Disney adult of my sex life."

Watching seven goddesses casually place Vegas-style bets on my ability to rack up more women was surreal. This wasn’t fantasy. This wasn’t fanfic. This was my goddamn life: a harem who didn’t just tolerate my chaos—they bet money on the expansion pack.

Only my Ghost was missing from this perfect cast list.

"I’ll make it up to all of you when I get back," I promised, and for once, I meant it.

One by one, they lined up their demands—full nights with me, solo time, no sharing, no interruptions.

But when Janet’s turn came? She broke the script.

"All I want," Janet said, voice dipping softer, almost fragile, "is to move in with you. I want to sleep in your arms every night, kiss that beautiful face every morning when I wake up..."

She cut herself off before it got too teary, but the longing in her voice hit like a sucker punch. For once, the call went dead quiet. Seven women, one confession, and me—the bastard at the center of it.

"What does Janet mean about moving in?" Luna asked gently, like we were on some emotionally raw Oprah special instead of the horniest group chat in history.

"I’m acquiring a new place soon," I said, letting the words hang heavy. "Big enough for all my women and all my business operations. Basically, headquarters for everything I’m building."

"Headquarters," Madison added with a grin sharp enough to cut steel. "That’s where the Church of Sexual Liberation will be based."

The call erupted in laughter, but it was nervous laughter—the kind people do when they’re not sure if it’s a joke. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

"I want to move in too," Anya said instantly, like she’d just pressed the buzzer on Family Feud. Victoria and Elena nodded in quick agreement.

"I’d love to," Luna whispered wistfully. "But I can’t. Not right now. With my situation."

Then came Isabella. And the look on her face... yeah. We all knew. Married. Kids. Responsibilities shackled to her ankle like reality’s ugliest ankle monitor.

That’s when Madison stepped in, pulling queen duty.

"I can’t move in either," she said, steady but soft. "Even though I’m his fiancée, it wouldn’t be appropriate right now. I’ve got training with my father, a future business to run. I’m not ready." She turned her gaze toward Isabella. "So that makes two of us."

Translation? Madison was benching herself—voluntarily—for Isabella’s sake. Because make no mistake: as my fiancée, she could’ve moved in tomorrow. The Torres family wouldn’t just approve, they’d hire architects and security contractors like they were building the next Avengers Tower. But Madison gave that up. Not because she had to, but because she knew Isabella needed it.

And in that sacrifice, she crowned herself. Madison wasn’t just my woman. She was my Queen.

The real prize...

Seven faces staring back at me through the screen. Each one beautiful. Each one mine. Each one willing to orbit the chaos of Peter Carter because deep down they’d already accepted what we were.

And that’s when it crystallized.

I wasn’t just building a harem.

I was building a fucking empire.

Not the type in history books. The type future historians whisper about like a scandal. Rome burned. Kardashians divorced. Bieber got arrested. But this? This was Peter Carter’s dynasty.

And it was only the beginning.