CHAPTER 395: WITH GREAT POWER

By 6:30 AM, my run wrapped—lungs burning sweet fire, veins electric with endorphins, mind a laser-etched blade. Cooling down by our gates, sweat-slick and invincible, a mechanical death-rattle shattered the dawn hush. The fortress across the street—that hulking mansion with gates sealed tighter than a nun’s chastity belt—groaned alive, jaws parting like some billionaire’s grumpy awakening.

Then boom: a sapphire streak detonated onto the asphalt. No mere car—this was a carbon-fiber hypersonic dick-swing, Bugatti Chiron mid-orgasm, vanishing in a heartbeat with an engine snarl that could’ve cracked mountains. Power? The kind peasants drool over but never tame. I tracked its taillights winking around the bend, that feral itch clawing my gut.

Soon. I will have mine. My Chiron—and a fleet to make gods jealous—would roar louder.

I grinned, wolfish. Shopping? Cute sideshow. Today was empire chess—BioLa solution and Madison’s grin will be my checkmate.

Twins stirring soon, Charlotte likely caffeinated and crunching in the living room like a sexy spreadsheet sorceress. Later? Isabella, Luna, Victoria—the Lincoln Heights pack—rolling in for "retail therapy." Blissfully clueless. Cars? Check—hyperspeed toys to armor my queens.

But the penthouse blueprint burned hotter: thirty stories of armored opulence in LA’s prickliest spire, a fuck-off to prying eyes. Garages groaning with bespoke beasts—each whip tailored to her: Emma’s feral Lambo for joyrides, Sarah’s sleek Tesla for her shy escapes, Madison’s armored Maybach to queen the board.

Wardrobe blitz to torch their pasts, draping them in threads screaming "untouchable"—silks for Vivienne’s venom, leather for Ortega’s edge.

They’d think it’s splurge day. Fools. It’s coronation. My constellation, rising. And me? The sun with a hard-on for conquest. Game on.

And tonight... tonight was consecration fire. The full harem converging—no more stolen solos, no pussyfooting schedules. Acknowledged. Celebrated. Fused in sweat-slick purpose and ecstasy. Madison had purred it last call, that razor-edged thrill slicing through: "Time to properly introduce the queens to the new order." Her voice? Pure venom-laced honey, promising orgy-level unification where egos clashed and cunts crowned.

With great power comes great responsibility.

The Spider-Man cliché ricocheted in my skull as I pounded the pavement through the neighborhood’s half-awake opulence—Lincoln Heights flexing even pre-dawn: flawless sidewalks like surgical scars, lights sculpting hedges into nocturnal wet dreams, estates oozing old-money whispers through iron filigree and hedge-trimmed hubris.

The mantra thrummed as I pounded through the neighborhood’s stirring luxury—Lincoln Heights flaunting its pedigree even pre-dawn: sidewalks like polished marble, lights carving landscapes into shadowed masterpieces, estates murmuring legacy through ornate gates and flawless topiary.

Earlier, in the living room’s hush, Charlotte had been at it already—laptop aglow, fingers a storm resurrecting Quantum Tech from its grave. We’d exchanged nods, the air crackling with unspoken charge, before she laid out the unexpected: Deploy the four billion clawed from the vultures straight into Quantum Tech. Personal investment.

The numbers sang seduction. We’d burned $2.5 billion of the original seven on five companies acquisitions the CIA sold us. After Mom’s mansion and the bleed of sundries, $4.9 billion idled—stagnant, inflation’s quiet thief at work.

Her plan was simple: four billion infusion into her company, catapulting valuation from $8.9 billion to twelve

That didn’t even count the hidden billions she’d mentioned—reserves that would become our initial investment fund when I started commercializing my inventions.

That untapped reserves would seed our invention pipeline.

It was an excellent deal by any objective measure. She was offering me equity in a company positioned to reach eighty billion in valuation within years. Most investors would have signed immediately, grateful for access to such opportunity.

But I’d refused.

I turned it down.

Surprise hit her like a slap—eyes widening, concern etching lines—until I broke it down.

And the reasoning was everything—the difference between personal enrichment and generational infrastructure, between hoarding wealth and deploying it strategically for those who mattered.

I had a harem. The word still landed odd in my head, even whispered in the privacy of internal monologue, but fuck comfort—accuracy was king.

These weren’t fleeting flings or placeholder fucks; they were women woven into my world through supernatural amps and raw, bone-deep bonds. Most held their own financially right now: Madison, buoyed by Torres dynasty dollars; Charlotte, piecing her corporate juggernaut back from the brink; Isabella, steady on her teacher’s paycheck and nest egg; Victoria and the crew juggling their day-job hauls. But stability? Fragile as glass. Markets tanked, gigs vanished, black swans swooped in to shred the best-laid plans.

And more women were coming. The System sealed that fate—not by force, but as the inevitable pull of a guy who savored female fire without flinching. Every fresh spark dragged another into my gravity well, another life hitched to mine, her welfare my goddamn duty.

That’s why I’d forged Liberation Holdings.

The structure was a goddamn masterpiece—elegant in its deceptive simplicity, profound in its "fuck you" to fate’s chaos. On paper, Liberation Holdings boasted three primary owners: me (the puppet-master with controlling shares), Madison Torres (the queen bee with her family’s shark-sharp instincts), and Charlotte Thompson (the ice-queen analyst who’d soon get her slice once I thawed her professional walls).

But here’s the roasting kicker: my golden goose of decision-making power? It wasn’t hoarded in my greedy mitts. Nah, those beneficial shares were divvied up like party favors for my entire harem circus—Emma and Sarah (the taboo twins fresh off my bed), Isabella and Sofia (Miami’s sun-soaked spitfires), Victoria and Ortega (Lincoln Heights’ loyal firecrackers), Anya and Amanda (the wild cards who’d claw through hell for a taste),

Vivienne and Celeste (elegance wrapped in sin), Anastasia and Gabrielle (exotic enigmas), Ashby (the brooding artist type), Sophia Chen and Soo-jin (tech-savvy sirens), and a standing invite for whatever new flame crash-landed into my orbit next.

Madison, bless her calculating ass, snagged her own fat chunk of direct ownership—Torres blood recognized a bulletproof setup from a mile away.

But she double-dipped into my beneficial pool too, a sly hedge against any family empire wobbles or cartel bullshit. Charlotte? Her razor mind had likely run the sims already, penciling in her "evolution" from boardroom flirt to bed-warmer beneficiary. Smart cookie— she’d roast me later for not fast-tracking it.

The real genius? It flipped solo wealth-hoarding into a collective fortress, turning my cocky conquests into a safety net empire.

When Liberation Holdings sank fangs into Quantum Tech’s twelve-billion-dollar carcass, it wasn’t just Peter padding his ego—it was minting millionaires from my bedroom roster. All my women will be millionaires.

Madison and Charlotte? They’d rocket to billionaire badasses, ditching daddy’s shadow for their own thrones. Casual coffee chats might shrug it off as "cute shares in a big corp," but real players—those who understood business and what shares in an $12 Billion company—would clock the play instantly and swell with pride.

If they peeked under the hood at Madison’s stake? Anyone’d be toasting her like she’d conquered the fucking world.

Meanwhile, I’m over here, emperor of my incestuous kingdom, wondering if the IRS has a "harem tax" yet. BioLa’s next on the menu—time to make my girls filthy rich and untouchable.

But this was never about dazzling power-brokers or stroking egos. It was raw responsibility—the brutal kind forged by supernatural upgrades and the swelling galaxy of women whose worlds I’d upended, irrevocably.

The investment play stacked up ironclad from every vector. Diversification first: hoarding personal billions in one pot screamed vulnerability—a single hack, lawsuit, or market fuckup could torch it all.

Liberation Holdings? A standalone war chest, splintering risk across a web of assets while keeping the reins strategically tight. Tax efficiency second: corps bent rules individuals could only dream of, especially when ballooning toward hundreds of billions—loopholes, deferrals, shields that’d make the IRS weep. Governance third: baked-in hierarchies of command, bulletproof against my untimely exit, ensuring my queens kept the keys, the votes, the empire intact no matter what grim reaper swung my way.

Fourth—and the gut-punch core: explosive growth. Quantum Tech at twelve billion? Mere launchpad. ARIA’s scans had flagged dozens of sleeping giants in tech, bricks-and-mortar, pharma, showbiz, frontier markets—ripe for the plucking.

Liberation wouldn’t chain itself to one titan or lane; it’d sprawl like cancer, infiltrating every lucrative crevice, snatching slivers of the global pie until it was the pie.

The projections? Mind-melting. Conservative math pegged Quantum at eighty billion in five years, juiced by my invention pipeline. That four-billion stake? Twenty-x minimum, easy. But QT was just appetizer—ARIA was queuing buyouts, distressed gems, arbitrage wet dreams, all supercharged by capital floods and her god-tier crunching.

Decade out? Hundreds of billions under management. Two decades? Trillions on the table, no hyperbole. Every cent? Theirs—my women’s. Security so ironclad, their great-grandkids could burn cash for sport without a flicker of want.

With great power comes great responsibility.