CHAPTER 226: CIRCLE OF DESIRES

"Charlotte, darling!" Margaret pulled her daughter into a hug, but her eyes weren’t on Charlotte. They kept snapping back to me like she was trying to memorize the brushstrokes on the Mona Lisa before security dragged her out. "You didn’t tell me your business partner was so... impressive."

Translation: why the fuck didn’t you warn me this man looks like sin invented a tuxedo?

Charlotte’s professional mask cracked just enough to reveal a grin. She was enjoying this. "Mom, this is also Madison Torres—Eros’s fiancée."

Madison glided forward like she owned both the runway and the trademark on poise itself. "Mrs. Thompson, it’s a pleasure to meet you."

"Torres," Margaret repeated, her inner Wall Street shark surfacing. "As in Torres Developments?"

"My family’s company, yes."

Margaret’s eyebrows flicked up. That was Miami code for royalty. "Well then, you’re practically royalty here." Margaret’s attention shifted between Madison and me with obvious curiosity mixed with something that looked suspiciously like hunger. "How fortunate for you both to have found each other."

But her eyes were back on me before the sentence even landed. The wheels were already turning— Margaret Thompson had navigated more social battlefields than the Kardashians had divorces.

She knew exactly what an engagement in this world could mean: strategy, leverage, alliances. Only that it wasn’t as she’d guessed.

Which also meant she was doing the mental math on how available I might be for... extracurriculars.

"Margaret," I said, letting her name roll off my tongue like a velvet threat, "would you mind showing us around? I’d love to meet some of your friends."

The way she looked at me when I said her name—like I’d just whispered the cheat code to life—told me everything I needed to know about her: hungry for a D, starved, one Botox injection away from total implosion.

"I’d be delighted," she breathed, looping her arm through mine with the kind of casual intimacy that screamed I’ve already picked out the hotel suite for this affair.

As we moved through the party, the atmosphere bent around me. I wasn’t blending in—I was gravity itself.

Every woman’s eyes slid to me and stuck there like I was trending harder than a Bieber mugshot. Husbands clenched their jaws, shifted closer, tried to stake claims they couldn’t possibly enforce. It was adorable, like watching toy poodles bark at a panther.

Margaret paraded me through her social circle—Vivienne, Anastasia, Gabrielle—women who looked like they’d been sculpted in private Beverly Hills clinics and exported to Miami as luxury goods.

Vivienne, fiery red hair and emerald eyes, divorced from some tech exec whose biggest achievement was probably crying during layoffs, gasped the moment she laid eyes on me. "My God," she whispered, voice drenched in hunger. "You’re absolutely magnificent."

Her boldness made the surrounding men stiffen, but I just smiled like I’d been expecting the applause. I took her hand, kissed her knuckles, locked eyes.

The sound that slipped out of her—a soft, breathy gasp, halfway between a sigh and a moan—was pure symphony. Her ex-husband would have burned a data center to get that reaction.

And here I was, pulling it out of her with a hello.

Then there was Anastasia, married to a pharmaceutical mogul who was currently glued to his phone like a lab rat hypnotized by blue light, stared at me with the kind of hunger that said she was mentally saving screenshots of me for later... private reflection.

"Anastasia hasn’t seen her husband in months until today," Margaret murmured, leaning in like we were gossiping at a confessional. "Business trips, he claims."

Translation: the guy’s out selling boner pills but doesn’t bother giving his wife one.

"What a shame," I said, just loud enough for Anastasia to catch it. "A woman like that should never be left alone."

Her eyes lit up like I’d just told her she wasn’t invisible. The gratitude in that look? Forget renewable energy—plug Miami into Anastasia’s face right then and the city would never lose power again.

Next came Gabrielle. Brunette, trophy wife, half her husband’s age and operating at twice his brainpower. She purred my name like it was dessert. "Eros. What an... evocative name."

"It seemed appropriate," I said, giving her the low resonance version of my voice that carried all the innuendo she was desperate for. Her pupils dilated instantly. Her husband was standing right there and she was already picturing how my name would sound when she screamed it.

Every introduction followed the same formula: hunger disguised as small talk, desperate laughter to mask the ache, wives gazing at me like I was the plot twist their marriages had never delivered.

And more importantly, they all looked at me like I was the answer to prayers they’d been afraid to voice.

The men? They were the opposite. Each one shrinking, restless, their body language screaming I should’ve taken her to Cabo this year instead of buying that boat. Comfortable husbands suddenly remembered what it felt like to be in competition. Spoiler: they hated it.

"Eros," Margaret said, steering me toward the glittering heart of the rooftop. "I simply must introduce you to Amanda, our guest of honor."

The bride-to-be turned around, and in one glance I understood exactly why this was her second marriage.

Not because she was unlucky. Not because "the first one just didn’t work out."

No. It was written all over her—Amanda wasn’t built for monogamy. She was built for worship. And the poor bastard she married first hadn’t known how to kneel.

Amanda was not just beautiful—she was a masterpiece made flesh, a walking sculpture designed to make men forget reason. Her hair, a cascade of buttery blonde, caught the Miami light like spun gold, every strand seeming to glow from within. It fell around her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face that could launch a thousand ships—or empty a billion-dollar account.

Her face—flawless. Not just pretty, but perfectly carved: high cheekbones tapering to a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds; eyes the color of tropical seas, deep and fathomless, capable of turning men into beggars with a single look. Full lips, naturally flushed, curved into that perpetual half-smile that never quite reached her eyes—until now.

Her body was sin in silhouette—molded by hours in the gym, yes, but possessing a natural grace that suggested she’d never had to try to look this good.

Amanda moved shifted like liquid sex poured into silk—her white dress clinging, every curve a declaration of war disguised as elegance.

Her breasts strained against the fabric, full and heavy, the neckline plunging just enough to reveal the smooth, shadowed cleavage between them. You could just see the twin peaks of her nipples pressing through the thin silk—twin points of arousal—rock hard, daring anyone—especially me—to look deeper than her fiancé ever had.

Her hips flared from a waist so sharp it looked sculpted from marble, leading down to legs that seemed to go on forever. The dress clung to the powerful muscles in her thighs—defined, powerful, hidden, yet quivered slightly as she moved. Each step was a silent invitation—every sway begging for my hands to take her apart, unveil sin inch by sin inch.