CHAPTER 232: BRIDE-TO-BE INVITATION

Then Margaret, ever the queen, took command. "Amanda, darling," she purred, orchestrating this like a general moving troops across a battlefield, "you look positively glowing. Perhaps you should get some rest before your big day?"

Amanda twisted her engagement ring in the Miami lights—the first time she’d even acknowledged the poor thing all night. "You’re absolutely right, Margaret. I should... prepare for tomorrow."

That was Harold’s cue. The man perked up like a Labrador hearing a squeaky toy. "Amanda, finally! I’ve been trying to—"

"Harold," Amanda interrupted with the exhausted tone of someone correcting a child for the fiftieth time, "I’m going to our apartment. Alone. I need to... reflect on some things. Stay and discuss business mergers."

The look Harold shot me could have started a holy war. As if I was personally responsible for his fiancée suddenly discovering she had agency.

"But Amanda," he whined, his voice cracking like James Corden trying to apologize for existing, "it’s our engagement party. Shouldn’t we—"

"Goodnight, Harold."

Amanda turned to me then, and that look... it wasn’t just temptation. It was promise. Everything Harold couldn’t deliver was alive in her eyes, hot and merciless.

"Eros," she said, her lips curling into the kind of smile that detonates marriages, "it was... educational meeting you."

When Amanda squeezed my hand goodbye, she didn’t just linger—she delivered. Something small and rectangular pressed into my palm with the kind of subtlety only the truly reckless can pull off.

A hotel key card.

Room 2847.

The penthouse suite Harold had lovingly booked for their "romantic" weekend.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. The bride-to-be had just handed me her honeymoon suite while dismissing her fiancé like he was Uber Eats she’d forgotten to tip.

*

Within twenty minutes, half of our circle had evaporated into the Miami night—every single one carrying my number like it was a passport to a better dimension. They didn’t leave quietly either. Each woman walked out with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing

exactly where the next days were headed.

Private appointments. Tailored sessions. Personal awakenings.

But the rooftop didn’t collapse after they vanished—if anything, the pressure intensified. With the most sexually frustrated goddesses gone, the energy mutated into something even sharper. Less hunger, more strategy.

Margaret stayed at the epicenter, her white cocktail dress gleaming under the rooftop lights as if she were chairing a NATO summit instead of an engagement party. "Well," she said, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle with queenly precision, "that was remarkably efficient coordination."

"Efficient?" Charlotte muttered, her eyes wide as she took in the carnage like she was narrating a documentary on predatory behavior. "Try catastrophically effective."

Madison had her phone out, scrolling through the newborn group chat. The screen was a minefield of notifications, each one a declaration of intent dressed up in emojis and innuendo.

Vivienne:Home in 20. Already planning the private viewing😈

Anastasia:My laboratory is fully equipped for... testing

Celeste:Gallery opens early tomorrow for VIP appointments

Ashby:French lessons available upon request 💋

Sophia:Museum has very private exhibition spaces

Amanda:Penthouse suite fully prepared for... appreciation

Madison tilted the screen toward me, laughing. "Jesus Christ. They’re not even pretending anymore."

"Why should they?" Margaret asked, her voice calm and amused, like she’d been waiting years for this exact shift in the weather. "For the first time in a very long time, they’ve found something worth being excited about."

And she was right. You could feel it in the air—the tectonic plates of this rooftop had shifted. What began as a hunting ground had transformed into something far more dangerous.

This wasn’t a party anymore.

This was a command center.

And somehow, without even trying, I’d become the warlord everyone was rallying around.

But our post-coordination celebration was cut clean in half when ARIA’s voice knifed through my consciousness—cold, efficient.

"Master," she whispered with digital precision, "the CIA operatives are getting restless. They’ve begun coordinating with additional units."

The words hit like static on an open comm channel, my enhanced senses spiking to full alert even as I kept my smile easy, my posture relaxed, and my champagne glass perfectly balanced in the social theater around me.

"Status," I thought back.

"Not advancing yet," ARIA replied, her tone all data and razor edges, "but their comm traffic shows recalibration. The departure of multiple high-value guests has disrupted their original extraction plan. They’re adapting."

"Monitor. I want to know the instant they pivot from surveillance to action."

"Already done, Master. But..." A pause, just long enough to register as significant. "They’re no longer focused solely on Margaret. Their net has widened. They’re actively building profiles on you—and Charlotte."

That weight dropped over me like Miami humidity, thick and suffocating. This wasn’t just some spook squad chasing a mother of an heiress anymore. They’d clocked me, seen past the tuxedo, and started cataloguing what I really was. And Charlotte—well, she was no longer invisible to them either.

"Dear... sir," Charlotte’s voice broke in, her accent lilting with concern as she caught my fractional hesitation. "Everything alright?"

"Perfect," I said smoothly, letting my voice carry that engineered reassurance my enhancements made effortless. A mask they’d never pierce. "Just... appreciating how well this evening has developed."

Margaret closed the remaining distance between us, her perfume carrying the sweet venom of control. She radiated satisfaction—the kind of energy born from watching dominoes fall exactly where she’d placed them. "Eros, I have to say..." her smile was silk on steel, "...this has been one of the most interesting parties I’ve ever hosted."

"The evening’s just getting started," I told her, every syllable laced with the kind of promise she craved—and the kind I fully intended to deliver.

Around us, Miami pulsed like a living organism. The group chat buzzed in my pocket, a private chorus of lust and logistics. Black ops shadows stalked just beyond the rooftop lights, their encrypted whispers circling closer. And Margaret Thompson was staring at me like I was an answered prayer dressed in Tom Ford.

The hunt wasn’t ending. It was mutating.

From seduction to strategy. From champagne bubbles to bullets in the dark.

And I was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.