CHAPTER 164: FAMILY REALITY

Here I was, lying in my lame-ass bed—the one I’d spent years on, the kind of mattress you get when your mom says "we’ll upgrade later" and then forgets you exist. Presidents Day sale, probably. Springs that had absorbed every nightmare, every lonely night, and every tragic jerk-off session to girls who wouldn’t have pissed on me if I was on fire.

And now? Now I was hugging a trust-fund princess on it. Me. The same bed that had been the stage for my incel phase was suddenly hosting Madison fucking King, who could buy out three seasons of Euphoria just to complain about the outfits.

And technically? I wasn’t broke anymore either. I had a million-plus sitting in system points, which basically made me the Elon Musk of make-believe currencies.

’How much exactly, ARIA?’

"While you were busy with Isabella and assaults," ARIA’s voice rang out from my curved trading monitor—because she has the subtlety of a car alarm—"I went reckless on XAUUSD and AUDCHF trades. Current profit: $220,000."

Madison’s head shot up from my chest like I’d just confessed to tax fraud. "Did your computer just..."

"Yeah. That’s ARIA. As you know..."

Real smooth, dickhead. Nothing screams romance like your AI flexing forex profits mid-cuddle.

Madison sighed in that way rich girls do when their boyfriend reveals another deeply questionable hobby. Like, I can’t believe I’m still here, but also I guess this is my life now. Supposed to be emotional bonding time—post-assault cuddles, soft moment, yadda yadda—but my AI basically announced she was the Gordon Ramsay of currency pairs.

Meanwhile, my life calendar was already stacked:

Date with Luna tonight (girl was expecting candlelight and chemistry homework help, not "sorry, I’m fighting felony charges").

Tommy—sweet, loyal, Takis-powered Tommy—had literally sprinted to the police station for me like a golden retriever that learned public transit. Dude deserved a Rolex and liposuction for his loyalty alone.

I swear, Tommy. I’ll make you rich. Every fat best friend in anime gets sidelined—I’ll give you a glow-up fund instead.

"So," Madison said, tracing lazy patterns on my chest like she was doodling with privilege, "your ARIA makes money while you sleep?"

"Sometimes while I’m awake too. ARIA’s good with patterns."

"You’re such a nerd." But she said it like it was hot. Like finding out I had a secret AI was just another feature in the "Peter Carter: Limited Edition Chaos Boyfriend" experience.

"Says the girl lying in a bed with a Groupon origin story."

"I like your bed," she protested. "It’s... authentic."

"It’s shit, Madison. We both know it’s shit."

"Authentically shit, then."

We stayed like that, her warmth pressed against me, turning my Presidents Day clearance mattress into something borderline holy. The lawsuits, the viral videos, the felony assault—I could handle all of it with her weight on my chest, her breathing syncing with mine, like the universe had finally decided to spot me one small mercy.

This is what having someone means. This weird feeling where even disaster seems survivable. Like your whole world’s on fire, but at least you’re holding someone’s hand while it burns down.

"Master," ARIA chimed in, because apparently she’d never read a single room in her artificial life, "shall I execute the trailing stop-loss on the gold position? Resistance at—"

"ARIA, read the fucking room."

"My apologies. Returning to silent monitoring."

Madison laughed, soft but vibrating through both of us. "I did not get to explore her with you... is she always this chatty?"

"Only when she’s showing off. I think she’s trying to impress my Main girlfriend."

"An AI wingman. That’s new."

"Everything about me is new, apparently."

She shifted, looking up with those lashes that probably had a dedicated line item in her dad’s budget. "Not everything. You’re still the guy who cares about his sisters. Who shows up for his friends. Who somehow makes me feel like more than just another rich bitch playing at relationships."

"You were never just that."

"I was, though. Before you." Her voice dropped to this knife-edge honesty that hit harder than any legal threat. "I was exactly what everyone expected. Spoilt rich brat, shallow, calculating, dating for social clout. Then you happened."

"And now?"

"Now I’m lying in a bed held together by prayer, duct tape, and bad decisions, listening to ARIA announce forex positions, waiting to see if my boyfriend goes to prison. And somehow? It’s the realest I’ve ever felt."

Fuck. When did this get so heavy?

Before I could say something stupid and ruin it, Mom’s voice came slicing up the stairs like a court summons.

"Peter! Madison! Dinner!"

Saved by maternal scheduling.

Madison groaned against me. "Do I have to move?"

"Unless you want to explain to Linda Carter why we’re too cozy to eat."

"Good point." She rolled off me, immediately shivering like the bed was made of refrigerated shame. "Your mom still scares me."

"She scares me too. It’s how she shows love."

We headed downstairs, Madison’s designer everything looking hilariously misplaced against our peeling paint and discount furniture. The table was set for six. Which meant—

"Tommy!"

My best friend was already posted up, inhaling breadsticks like he was auditioning for a food challenge.

"Yo," he said, mouth full of carbs. "Your mom invited me. Said something about feeding strays?"

Mom came out carrying a pot of spaghetti big enough to qualify as disaster relief. "Tommy’s been here stress-eating since you left. Figured I might as well make it official."

"Mrs. C, you’re a saint," Tommy said, staring at the pasta like it was the Ark of the Covenant.

"Just Linda, honey. And save room. Garlic bread’s coming."

Sarah was already at the table, doomscrolling like she was documenting history in real time. Emma’s seat was empty—still hiding out in her room.

"So," Mom said while serving, casual as hell despite the felony-shaped elephant in the room, "Sterling called. Hearing’s Monday. He’s confident."

"That’s good," I said, watching her heap spaghetti on my plate like carbs were a legal defense.

"He also said the school’s reaching out about settlement talks. Suddenly they’re concerned about liability over Mr. Holloway’s behavior."

"Shocking," Sarah muttered. "Only took a beatdown to make them care."

"Sarah."

"What? It’s true. Everyone knew he was creepy."

Tommy pointed his fork for emphasis. "Facts. Dude had full pedo vibes. That thing where he leaned in during tests? Nasty."

Madison was watching this like she’d stumbled into an off-brand Sopranos episode disguised as pasta night.

"The point is," Mom continued, "we’ll handle this. As a family. Which apparently now includes Tommy and Madison, so welcome to the chaos."

"Thanks for having me, Mrs.—Linda," Madison corrected quickly. "Your spaghetti smells amazing."

"Secret ingredient’s rage," Mom deadpanned, before cracking a smile at her panic. "Kidding. It’s oregano."

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. Making assault-aftercare dinners weird since 2025.

"Peter," Tommy said between bites, "we still on for tomorrow? That thing we talked about on the phone?"

My boy deserved wins after literally running to the police station for me.

"Yeah, we’re on. Might have to work around court dates, but we’ll make it happen."

"Legal stuff," Sarah snorted. "Casual."

"Everything’s casual if you say it right," I shot back.

"Is that why you’re casually dating a billionaire’s daughter while casually beating up administrators?"

"Sarah!" Mom’s voice cracked across the table like she was calling Code Blue at the hospital. If Jesus himself had been chewing, he’d have paused mid-bite.

"Millionaire," Madison corrected, all teeth and smugness. "Billionaire’s too much pressure."

Tommy almost died on a breadstick. "Wait—actually?"

"Her dad owns half the city," I explained, like it was an allergy warning.

Tommy’s eyes went anime-wide. "Bro. BRO." Most people knew her father was rich but in millions not billions.

"I know."

"You went from nobody, to hero, to criminal, to rich boyfriend in, like, three days?"

"Yeah. Call me Netflix Original: Fast & Felonious."

Mom watched us with the same expression she used when measuring morphine doses—mask of calm over brain math that could kill you if she miscalculated. "Madison, honey, does your family know you’re here?"

"They know I’m with Peter. The details seemed... unnecessary."

Translation: She didn’t tell Daddy Warbucks that her boyfriend’s a trending felony hashtag.

"Smart girl," Mom said. "No need to complicate things before we have to."

Emma drifted into the doorway, hoodie drowning her like she was cosplaying ’trauma in progress.’ Smaller, yeah, but steadier. Like someone duct-taped her soul back together just enough to keep walking.

"Room for one more?" she asked, voice cracked but present.

"Always, baby," Mom said, already serving her like she’d been waiting.

Emma slid in, avoiding all eye contact until Madison squeezed her shoulder. That little smile flickered out like a candle refusing to die. The table adjusted—gravitational pull bending toward her without making a scene.

This is family. Not that Target-commercial shit. The other kind. The type that stitches you up with sarcasm and carbs.

"So," Emma said after a bite, voice regaining volume, "Connor’s TikTok got picked up by WorldStar." Because of course it did. My disasters don’t go local—they go franchise.

"You’re basically famous," Emma added.

Sarah lit up. "Someone said Peter looks like if Peter Parker actually had the balls to throw hands."

Emma grinned. "Another one said, ’John Wick: The AP Class edition.’"

Tommy almost spit marinara. "Nah, my favorite: nerdy kid said ENOUGH and chose violence."

I groaned. "You’re all terrible."

"We’re supportive," Madison said sweetly.

"Supportive would be not quoting TikTok at me during dinner."

"Supportive is making sure you know you’re internet famous," Sarah shot back. "You’re a meme now. Cry about it."