CHAPTER 75: THE PLUMBER

She didn’t even notice it at first. The way her nipples had hardened, pressing against the soaked fabric in silent betrayal. The way her yoga pants were now slick, hugging her hips, clinging to the soft roundness of her ass like they were proud of it—even if her husband never was.

"¡Mierda! ¡No, no, no!" she hissed, slipping on wet tile as she scrambled for the valve, hands soaked and useless.

She gave up, bolted from the room, leaving a trail of chaos behind her—water pooling, hardwood floors screaming for mercy, and her own wet body looking like something out of an adult fantasy gone sideways.

Her soaked clothes slapped against her skin as she ran, curves on full display, the kind of sight a man would beg to see once in his life. Not that her man ever noticed.

Isabella stood there for a second too long, staring at her reflection in the mirror across the hallway, chest heaving, lips parted, dripping wet and looking like some forgotten goddess of domestic chaos.

A fantasy wrapped in frustration. A storm in soaked cotton.

And if Peter had been watching—if he was somewhere close, which he was—he could see it in her eyes. That crack. That need.

The moment before a woman stops waiting to be wanted...and starts daring someone to take her.

By the time she reached the upstairs bathroom, she was panting, pissed, and near tears—arms full of towels, tank top suctioned to her skin like it had a crush. She looked like every plumber’s wet dream... if the plumber happened to be watching from a camera hidden behind the mirror downstairs.

And he was.

Peter smirked from the Audi parked down the street, fingers lazily tapping the laptop. "Perfect timing," he muttered, voice low.

Madison leaned in, licking her bottom lip. "She’s already wet," she said, her voice smooth and smug. "All you have to do now... is show up."

*

She sprinted to the upstairs bathroom, grabbing towels while cursing in both languages, her wet hair dripping down her neck and her soaked clothing making her look like every plumber’s fantasy come to life.

When she returned downstairs, fumbling for her phone while trying to wrap a towel around herself, Isabella was breathing hard and fighting back tears of frustration. Her hands shook as she tried to dial, water still flooding her bathroom and probably damaging her floors.

The second Isabella’s thumb tapped her phone screen; Peter was already five steps ahead. His fingers flew across his laptop keyboard like a man playing a symphony of chaos—fast, fluid, and way too precise for anyone still bound by human limits.

"Network lockdown initiated," he muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Within seconds, the entire five-mile radius around Isabella’s posh little neighborhood was under his control. Not visually. Not legally. Technologically. Outbound calls? Silenced. Tower signals? Bent. Cell service? Pristine, untouched—because you couldn’t raise suspicion if everything looked perfectly normal.

But the moment someone tried to dial out?

Their call went straight to Daddy.

"Wait... you can actually hijack cell towers?" Madison blinked, leaning in, her voice laced with awe.

Peter didn’t look up. "I don’t hijack. I own. Enhanced digital manipulation, babe. The entire grid? That’s my sandbox."

The screen on Isabella’s phone glowed. She hit the contact for her sleazy, price-gouging plumber Bob—the guy who took three days to fix a toilet and still charged double. The call connected.

But instead of some hungover Bob grunting, a smooth, velvet-lined voice slid through the line like warm silk.

"Rodrig Plumbing Emergency Services," Peter said, voice dipped in pure confidence, "this is Peter. How can I assist you today?"

He flipped the switch. Instantly, his voice became crisp, warm, trustworthy—like he’d been trained in elite customer service by Lucifer himself.

"Oh my God, yes," Isabella’s voice trembled slightly. "I have a total emergency—my bathroom’s flooding and I can’t shut off the damn water."

Peter’s lips curled. "That’s no problem at all, ma’am. Water damage is serious, but you called the right number. May I have your address, please?"

As she rattled it off, Madison just stared. She didn’t even blink as Peter’s body began to shift, bones reconfiguring subtly beneath his skin. Jawline sharpening. Shoulders widening. The Dark Lord didn’t need magic for this—he just needed purpose.

And right now, that purpose was seducing his very Teacher with a wrench in one hand and authority in the other.

"We’ve actually got a crew nearby," he said, voice deeper now, dripping with professionalism and low-key dominance. "Fifteen minutes. That work for you?"

"Yes—yes, thank God. I’ll pay whatever it takes, just—please. I need this fixed before my floors get destroyed."

"Money’s not the issue. Your peace of mind is." Peter’s tone turned just a little softer, a touch more intimate. "This is what we do. I personally guarantee you’ll be taken care of. Do you know how to turn off your main water valve?"

"I—no. I have no idea where that is," Isabella admitted, flustered and clearly embarrassed.

Peter let his voice drop into that perfect, reassuring range. "Then don’t even stress. I’ll walk you through everything when I arrive. For now, just try to stop the water from spreading. I’ll handle the rest. You’re in good hands."

"Oh my God... thank you, Peter. Seriously. I’ll be waiting."

The moment the call ended, Peter released his hold on the networks; closed the laptop and exhaled—fully transformed. Not just physically. Energetically. The man sitting in the passenger seat now wasn’t the same Peter Madison had driven around an hour ago.

This was Dark Lord: Plumber Edition—a mythic-level seducer dressed as every woman’s guilty Pinterest board fantasy.

"Back to my house," he said, voice commanding. "I need to suit up."

*

Twenty minutes later, Peter stepped out of his front door—and Madison nearly wrecked the car.

He wore work boots that thudded against the driveway like they had authority. Dark, fitted jeans that looked custom-tailored to his thighs. And a gray t-shirt tight enough to start fights—with "Rodrig Plumbing" printed across his chest like it was always part of his destiny.

The look should’ve screamed ordinary repair guy. But Peter was but built for "ordinary." He looked like the plot twist in a forbidden fantasy—the hot tradesman who shows up to fix more than just the leaky pipes.

"Holy hell," Madison whispered, watching him hoist a legit plumber’s tool bag onto his shoulder. "You look like a porn star in disguise... but make it designer."

"That’s the goal," Peter replied, glancing in the Audi’s mirror to smooth his hair. "Convincing enough to get in the door. Attractive enough to scramble her common sense."

He shut the door, kissed Madison through the window—slow and deep, just enough to remind her who he really was—and headed off down the street like he’d just stepped out of a fever dream.

"You sure about this?" Madison called out, knowing full well he was.

Peter just smirked, eyes flashing gold. "I’m not just sure, I’m inevitable. I’ll text when she’s drenched and grateful and liberated."

"Go get her, baby," Madison whispered, pride and chaos swirling behind her smile. "Make her forget that plumbing emergency was even real."