CHAPTER 405: THE AMG ONE GIFT

The silence in the dealership was no longer a pause; it was a vacuum. The world outside the glass walls ceased to exist. The stunned staff stood as if caught in amber, witnesses to a spectacle so beautiful and fundamentally alien it defied rational processing.

The honey-blonde saleswoman, finally let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. It sounded like a sob. "Oh my God," she whispered, her eyes wide and fixed on the space where Anastasia had just stood. "Did that... Did that actually happen?"

Her younger colleague was still gripping the granite reception desk, her knuckles bloodless. "Seven," she mouthed, the word silent.

Then she said, her voice, a shaky, high-pitched thing. "There are seven of them. He just... he kissed seven different women. And they were all waiting for him. Like an appointment."

The married salesman scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked less awed now, and more existentially shaken. His entire understanding of love, marriage, and monogamy had just been dismantled in the span of five minutes.

"How?" he asked, not of anyone in particular. "How does a person... how does that work? That’s not a relationship. That’s a... a small, terrifyingly beautiful country."

"Look at the way he did it," one said, her voice gaining a dreamy, analytical quality. "With the first one, the blonde... that was pure joy. Like a homecoming. Then the one in the grey suit... that was different. Deeper. Like he was trying to memorize her soul." She shivered.

"And the other one... the ice queen? That was a war. A beautiful, terrifying war."

"It’s not even a harem," the manager, said quietly. He hadn’t moved from his position near the service bay, his eyes tracking Eros’s every subtle movement. "A harem is about possession. This..." He struggled for the word. "This is like devotion. They do not look his property. He treats them like they’re his... anchors."

"Yeah, well, I’d happily be anchored to that," The young women muttered, then flushed a deep crimson.

"Still," the married salesman muttered. "Lucky bastard."

"Jealous?" his female colleague asked, amused.

The married one let out a short, harsh laugh devoid of humor. "Jealous doesn’t begin to cover it." He looked down at the simple gold band on his finger. It suddenly looked very small, very plain. "I’m insanely, suicidally jealous."

"They made it clear when they got here," the older sales lady said, her voice dropping as if recalling a sacred vow. "Ms. Charlotte. She walked up to me and smiled, but her eyes were... flat. She said, ’We appreciate your discretion. No one documents what happens here today. Phones away.’ She didn’t threaten us. It was worse. It was a statement of fact."

They all stood in the new, heavy silence, not just employees anymore, but custodians of a myth unfolding in real-time. They weren’t just watching a man kiss seven women. They were watching a god at work, and for the first time in their mundane lives, they understood what it felt like to be insignificant. And strangely, blessed, to have seen it.

Eros finally pulled back from the reunions, surrounded by his women—the LA locals watching with amused smiles, the Miami arrivals still glowing from their greetings.

"But this..." He gestured to the Miami women. "This is the surprise you’ve all been teasing?"

Amanda laughed, looping her arm through his. "This wasn’t the surprise, mi amor. We’re the bonus."

He blinked. "What?"

"Charlotte’s jet got us here in five hours," Vivienne added, still pressed close to his side. "We’ve been coordinating for days."

"Coordinating what?" Eros asked, genuinely confused now.

Celeste grinned, bouncing on her toes. "You’ll see."

"Afte all, you—" Anastasia’s smile was ice and promise. "You have a kingdom to build. Starting with wheels."

Eros looked around at women (minus Madison), all smiling at him with varying degrees of mischief, love, and hunger.

"I’m going to regret asking," he said slowly, "but what exactly have you all been planning?"

"Everything," Sofia said simply, and kissed his cheek. "We’ve been planning everything."

The dealership staff watched, fascinated and terrified in equal measure, as the most beautiful man they’d ever seen stood surrounded by a constellation of women who loved him.

The dealership went still the moment the roar hit like thunder rolling through glass. Not traffic, not some sports car revving down the boulevard — this was deeper, darker. A growl engineered in Stuttgart, caged by lawyers, and then unchained by madmen.

The automatic doors parted, and in came the beast.

A Mercedes-AMG One, dark as storm clouds, silver-grey veins running along its carbon-fiber skin like lightning frozen mid-strike. Even the overhead lights bent themselves across its body, unable to cling to one shape before the curves swallowed them.

It wasn’t parked — it arrived.

And the manager — the man who probably dealt with billionaires every week without blinking — walked it in himself. His suit was pressed, his smile professional, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He wasn’t just presenting a car. He was unveiling a god.

"This, sir..." he began, one hand stroking the hood as though it would burn him otherwise, "...is the AMG One. A Formula 1 heart transplanted into a road car. A 1.6-liter turbo hybrid V6, straight from Mercedes’ championship cars, with four electric motors. Over one thousand horsepower. Zero to sixty in under three seconds. Top speed... officially 352 km/h. Unofficially?"

His lips twitched. "Faster than anything sane."

Eros’ eyes tracked the machine with surgical precision. He saw the air vents sculpted like gills, the active aero fins, the split diffuser sharp enough to cut a man. And he noticed what no one else could: this wasn’t just an AMG One. This had been touched.

The license plate caught him first: EROS V.D. Stamped in black chrome, the letters gleamed like a personal challenge to the world. Vanity, yes — but it was also a brand. A warning.

Amanda stepped closer, heels clicking like punctuation. She didn’t just walk; she commanded. "We had it customized," she purred, her gaze flicking to him like she was unveiling jewelry instead of a two-million-dollar missile. "Grey titanium finish, bespoke aero kit. Tuned suspension calibrated for both Nürburgring and city streets. And the cockpit..." she smiled, feline, "...redesigned for you."

The manager’s throat worked, ready to mention the price — the insult of it.

Amanda’s hand lifted, silencing him.

"Not necessary." She slipped the key fob from a velvet box and pressed it into Eros’ palm, cool metal against his skin.

The gullwing-style door hissed open, revealing the cockpit. Red and black Alcantara swallowed the seats, stitched with the same EROS. V.D. insignia from the plate. Carbon-fiber panels gleamed under dimmed ambient lighting, while the steering wheel was pure F1 tech — flat bottom, LED shift indicators, toggles that begged to be touched.