CHAPTER 448: CAFETERIA EXPLOSION

We didn’t immediately head for the chaotic heart of Lincoln High’s social scene. First, a pilgrimage was in order. I had to collect the other pillars of my new reality from their senior-level ivory towers.

Sarah was in Advanced Literature, a class that smelled faintly of old books and intellectual superiority. I waited outside the door, leaning against the lockers like I belonged there.

The hallway traffic slowed. Kids coming and going from nearby classes did a double-take, their whispers forming a speculative cloud around me. When the bell rang, Sarah was one of the first out.

Her gaze, always so sharp, swept over me, not with surprise, but with quiet, methodical cataloging. She didn’t say anything, and simply fell into step beside me, a silent, accepting sentinel.

Next was Emma, clear across campus in Digital Media Production. I found her hallway teeming with students, but she was an easy spot, a vibrant splash of color and motion.

"Finally!" she called out, bouncing over with an infectious kinetic energy that made her hair dance around her shoulders. "I was starting to think you’d abandoned us to face the peasant hordes alone." Her grin was pure, unadulterated Emma.

"Couldn’t have that," I said, a matching smile touching my lips.

Our final detour took us to Sofia. She navigated a different academic path, a mixture of electives and advanced courses that only sometimes overlapped with our own AP grind. We found her outside Art History, looking visibly relieved to see our assembled group. The relief was quickly overshadowed by the weight of the morning’s events.

"Thank God," she breathed, immediately moving to my side, seeking shelter in my presence. "I’ve been getting stares all morning. Everyone wants to know about..."

"The kiss," I finished for her, my voice low.

"The kiss," she confirmed, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips. "Jack’s friends... they’ve been unpleasant."

"They’ll get over it," I said, the words a promise more than a prediction.

"Or they won’t," Sofia shrugged with a defiant tilt to her chin, but her hand found mine and squeezed, a silent acknowledgment of the storm we were walking into together. "Either way."

We were a phalanx now, a five-person unit moving as one. I was at the center, Madison and Sofia pressed against either side of me, their hands hooked possessively around my arms. Sarah and Emma trailed just behind us, a loyal rear guard.

We moved through the hallways not like students, but like a royal procession, and the crowds parted before us.

It was during this walk that the old ghosts decided to surface.

Sarah was still tight-lipped about Kayla.

She hadn’t mentioned her return, hadn’t offered a warning. She just carried a quiet, misplaced guilt next to her, a burden I’d long ago told her she didn’t need to bear. Emma, ever perceptive, caught the tension in her twin’s shoulders.

She shot Sarah a grin, mouthed something quick and teasing I couldn’t quite decipher—probably You’re in trouble—and Sarah shot back a look that could freeze lava. Not now.

It was Sarah’s mess to sort out, Emma had decided. Sarah was the one who’d introduced us, the one who felt responsible. It was her confession to make.

Back when Kayla had pulled her fast one—leveraging the blockchain software we’d collaborated on to land a six-figure job at Mirror Crypto House, then vanishing from my life without a backward glance—Sarah had been crushed.

She saw it as her failure, her friend using her connection to betray my trust. She’d tormented herself for weeks, until I finally sat her down and assured her it was fine. That in the grand scheme of things, it was just another Tuesday in the life of Peter Carter.

And honestly, it had been. Back then, I’d been so pathologically chill about being used that people did it constantly. They’d take what they needed from my brain, offer a few hollow words of thanks, and disappear.

It had been my established pattern for so long that Kayla’s maneuver barely registered as a betrayal.

I hadn’t felt used, not really. I wasn’t the fully-realized god I am today, but I was still a genius—just one who hadn’t yet learned the value of his own genius. I’d designed maybe eighty percent of that blockchain architecture, true, but Kayla had contributed the other twenty.

In the process, she had shown me new approaches, different perspectives on cryptographic protocols that I hadn’t considered. It had been a learning experience, even if the outcome stung a little.

She’d actually called to thank me after she got the job. A stilted, awkward apology for how things had "turned out." A hopeful, "Maybe we can still be friends?" that we both knew was a lie.

I’d just sighed, told her not to worry about it, and let her go.

As of now, though? I wasn’t sure how to feel. Stripping away the being-used aspect, which I now understood in a whole new light, I respected her hustle.

She’d seen an opportunity to fundamentally change her life and she’d seized it with both hands. She’d taken an intellectual property I hadn’t known how to monetize and turned it into a career at one of the most influential crypto companies in the world.

That was survival instinct.

Pure, honest, and ruthless.

It was the same instinct I’d used when I took seven billion dollars in cryptocurrency and eight hundred million in gold from the Miami Vultures and felt not a single shred of guilt.

And what had Kayla taken? A software package I’d built mostly for fun and for her attention, a shot at a better life. I respected survivors. I respected hustles. They were honest with their base instincts, and they taught invaluable lessons about how the world actually functioned.

So, I’d let Kayla go. Let her live her life, build her empire.

The only complication would be if she thought she could pull the same stunt twice. If she came back around, thinking Peter Carter was still the easy mark who’d hand over world-changing intellectual property for a charming smile and a little flirtatious attention.

That would necessitate punishment.

Spanks on that bubbly, sexy little ass of hers, perhaps?

Yeah.

That would definitely do it.

Speaking of asses, I had four perfect specimens flanking me, yet I could only openly appreciate two in this public arena. Madison’s, sculpted and sublime, was showcased perfectly by her designer skirt, the fabric clinging with every sway of her hips. Sofia’s was encased in jeans so perfectly fitted they should be illegal, a crime of pure denim artistry.

Sarah’s and Emma’s were equally masterpieces of form and function, but they were off-limits for public appreciation. They were my sisters, and even a teenage sex god had to maintain some boundaries in front of five hundred witnesses.

Privately? A different story entirely. But here, now, walking through the halls of Lincoln High? It was Madison and Sofia who I could enjoy, who I could let my gaze linger on.

And enjoy them I did.

Madison hooked my right arm, her body pressed flush against mine, her hips rolling with a deliberate, hypnotic rhythm that was a practiced art form. On my left, Sofia matched her, her grip a little tighter, her own nervous defiance a perfect counterpoint to Madison’s predatory confidence.

Two girls. Two gorgeous bodies. Two public, unequivocal claims on Peter Carter.

Sarah and Emma brought up the rear, a protective detail with perfect asses I couldn’t acknowledge without creating a scandal that would make this morning’s hypercar spectacle look like a tame PTA meeting.

We reached the cavernous entrance to the cafeteria.

The moment we stepped through the double doors, the entire room exploded.

Not with sound, but with a sudden, shocking silence.

For one single, collective heartbeat, every conversation died, every fork paused halfway to a mouth, every head turned. It was that universal moment of disbelief, when a crowd of five hundred people processes a reality so far outside their expectations that their brains simply short-circuit.

Then, the noise came roaring back, twice as loud as before, a tidal wave of whispered speculation, hysterical gossip, and excited chattering.

Still they did not stop staring.

Onto me. Onto the two beautiful girls holding my arms with an intimacy that left no room for interpretation. Onto the visible, physical statement being made in front of the entire student body.

Peter Carter. Madison Torres. Sofia Delgado.

Three names that should never exist in the same sentence. Three people from three completely different social strata, forming a unit that shattered every unwritten rule of Lincoln High’s rigid hierarchy.

Madison Torres, trust fund heiress and untouchable princess. Sofia Delgado, former girlfriend of Jack Morrison, the school’s golden boy quarterback.

Both of them holding onto Peter Carter—formerly Peter the Invisible, Peter the Trash Can—as if he were a king they had willingly chosen.

The poetry of it was just... beautiful.

I used to get thrown in dumpsters by Jack. Humiliated. Made to feel so infinitesimally small that I wanted to disappear.

Now his ex-girlfriend was hugging my arm, her body language a clear, public declaration of her choice. She hadn’t officially broken up with him yet, hadn’t had the tense, formal conversation.

But now? With her pressed against my side, laughing at something Madison whispered, walking through the cafeteria like I was a prize worth winning?

It was official.

Jack Morrison had lost.

Peter Carter had won.