CHAPTER 207: THE THREE FAMILIES ONLY MAN

We were halfway through some influencer’s dramatic breakdown about losing brand deals—like literally crying over a moisturizer like it was the fall of Rome—when my phone buzzed. Madison’s name lit up the screen with that perfect, Oscar-worthy timing she always nails.

"Your fiancée?" Emma asked, not taking her eyes off the TV but smirking like she’d just found out Elon Musk tweeted at a toaster again.

"Unfortunately, or fortunately," I said, already grinning like I’d just scored front-row tickets to chaos. "Hey, beautiful."

"Don’t ’hey beautiful’ me, you ghost," Madison’s voice slithered through, that mix of affection and accusation that could make a Disney villain blush. "I’ve been texting for hours. Did you fall into a coma after your... activities last night?"

Emma’s eyebrows shot up, trying not to laugh like she was holding back a TikTok-level viral moment. Perfect. Madison was subtle as a sledgehammer dipped in glitter.

"I was sleeping off my exhaustion from said activities," I said, sliding toward the kitchen like a man heading into a VIP lounge. "What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait for me to rejoin the living?"

"Oh, just the minor apocalypse that is Sofia Delgado posting a story at 3 AM looking like she’d been hit by a truck of happiness," Madison purred. "And now half the school is losing their minds wondering why Jack Morrison’s girlfriend was out until dawn looking like she’d discovered religion—or ecstasy—whichever works better for social media metrics."

I paused at the kitchen island, hand running through my hair. Marble cold under my palm, I processed this like a Wall Street trader analyzing a Kardashian divorce. "She posted what now?"

"Instagram story. Deleted after ten minutes, naturally, because drama waits for no one. Connor screenshotted everything because Connor exists to ruin lives and sleep schedules alike. She was in her car, hair wrecked, makeup smeared, wearing what looked like your jacket, and—wait for it—glowing. Actual radiant, god-tier glowing. Satisfaction personified." Ah, that was definitely after I drove her honey.

Girl had clang on me and did not want to let for thirty minutes.

Emma had turned the TV down, clearly eavesdropping, because subtlety isn’t exactly a Carter family trait.

"Did she say anything?" I asked, bracing for poetic nonsense.

"Some cryptic bullshit about ’finally understanding what I’ve been missing’ and ’some ghosts are worth haunting.’ Very deep for someone who normally posts gym selfies and Starbucks cups like it’s the eighth sacrament."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The kitchen’s black cabinets and professional-grade appliances suddenly felt like they were judging me. "And Jack?"

"Radio silence but reposting his mom’s post about working late at the hospital again. Speaking of which..." Madison’s voice dropped into that special tone—half purr, half strategic missile. "My mother wants to meet your family. Already coordinated with your mom. Next weekend—both families getting to know each other properly."

A family dinner. My brain started running spreadsheets in panic mode like a hedge fund on Red Bull.

"And here’s the delicious part," Madison continued, voice practically rubbing its hands together. "Mother told the Morrisons too. You know how close our families are—business, social circles, the whole empire-building sitcom thing. They’ll be there."

I felt a slow, predator-level smile creep onto my face. The Torres and Morrison families weren’t just friends—they were practically business royalty. Andrew Morrison’s construction empire, his brother’s finance ops, both feeding off the Torres real estate dynasty like it was gourmet sustenance.

They’d discussed their children marriage but Madison’s mother insisted she would only marry her daughter to a man she loved but Jack Morrison had failed miserably to court Madison. She was leagues above him but now apparently Peter Carter’s fiancée.

Even though the attempt had failed, the Morrison were going to attend when Carters and The Torreses met. Given the history between the Carters (especially me) and the Morrisons, this meeting was bound to be electric, and all the three families knew that.

Madison’s failed courtship by Jack Morrison? Family legend. A cautionary tale whispered like a ghost story at brunch. And I, of course, was about to be the guy rewriting the next episode.

"So Jack Morrison gets to sit across from me at dinner," I said slowly, savoring the words like fine wine—or cheaper whiskey served in a crystal glass to confuse the peasants. "Knowing I’m engaged to the girl he couldn’t win, completely unaware that I’ve already claimed his girlfriend."

"And his mother will be there too," Madison added with wicked delight, her voice practically strip-teasing the word mother. "The same Patricia Morrison who works at both your mom’s hospital and basically runs that wellness center with my mom, where you’re about to start your new career."

Oh, the strategic beauty of it. It didn’t just hit me—it slammed into my chest like a defibrillator powered by karma. Patricia would meet Eros first—her mysterious liberator at the wellness center. Then, later, she’d be shaking hands at a family dinner with Peter Carter. The son of Maria Veronica—the woman whose very existence detonated the Morrison marriage like it was a reality TV finale.

The last time our families had been in the same room was for my DNA test—proof I wasn’t Andrew Morrison’s bastard son. Now? I’d stroll in as Madison’s fiancé, fresh off conquering Jack’s girlfriend and quite possibly his mother. Eat your heart out, Freud.

"The psychological warfare potential is incredible," I murmured, already scripting scenarios like I was directing a telenovela nobody was emotionally ready for. Patricia Morrison, freshly liberated by Eros, sitting across from Peter Carter

—completely clueless. Jack Morrison, smiling at the table while his world was quietly being folded, spindled, and mutilated like Lindsay Lohan’s probation schedule.

Fiancé of the girl he couldn’t win. Lover of the girlfriend he couldn’t keep. Ghost in the life of the mother who’d never sleep peacefully again unless I fuck or touch her. That’s not vengeance—that’s art of liberation.

"Exactly," Madison said, delight curling in her voice like cigarette smoke. "And knowing you, you’ll probably find a way to get both his mother and me alone in a room while everyone else discusses business partnerships."

She knew me too well. Damn, I loved her for it.

"When exactly is this dinner happening? Next weekend?" I asked, already polishing my smile for its red-carpet debut.

"Next weekend, yes. Gives you time to... handle your business at the wellness center first."

After hanging up, I strolled back into the living room where Emma was pretending to watch TV but obviously in full FBI surveillance mode.

"So," she said casually, in the same tone reporters use before detonating a politician’s career, "family dinner with the rich people?"

"Madison’s mother wants to meet us," I said smoothly. "Very traditional meet-the-family thing."

"And the Morrison family will be there too? I heard."

I sank into the couch, expression pure innocence—like a wolf caught red-pawed in a chicken coop but still managing to look like a misunderstood Disney prince. "Apparently they’re all friends. Business connections."

Emma gave me a look that could’ve headlined a meme. Pure skepticism, mixed with just enough amusement to say, my brother’s unhinged but at least he’s interesting.

"The same Morrison family that had you DNA tested? The same Jack Morrison who stuff you in lockers?"

"The very same," I said, savoring it.

"Peter." Her voice went serious, the kind of serious that made me remember she was the only one who could still pull me back from the brink. "I know you’re different now. Stronger, more confident, more... dangerous, I guess. And after what happened with Trent, I’m glad you can protect yourself and us. But just... be careful, okay? Whatever you’re planning for Jack Morrison, don’t lose yourself in it."

Too late, I thought. Losing myself wasn’t the risk.

I looked at my sister—really looked at her. Still beautiful, still sharp, but with that haunted maturity you only get from surviving something designed to break you. She was worried about me losing myself, when she was the one who’d already been shoved through life’s shredder and came out diamond-edged.

"I won’t," I promised, voice smooth enough to sell luxury cologne. "Everything I do, it’s for this family. For you, Sarah, Mom. To make sure no one ever hurts us again."

Emma nodded, satisfied—like she’d just caught me admitting I actually did floss. "Good. Now, can we please watch something that doesn’t involve influencers crying about brand deals? I have standards."

"Standards, huh? Bold move for someone who once binge-watched The Bachelor: Winter Games." I grabbed the remote anyway and started scrolling.

She ignored the jab with saintlike patience. "Something with explosions. And maybe some actual plot."

"I can work with that," I said, queuing up the cinematic equivalent of testosterone and poor decision-making.

Halfway through picking between "Die Hard But Louder" and "Fast & Furious: Please Stop," my phone buzzed. Sofia.

Sofia: "Still feeling you inside me. When can I see you again? —Your devoted Ghost."

Well. Subtlety was clearly dead.

I deleted the message faster than a Kardashian deletes marriage photos, but not before savoring the detail: she’d signed it exactly the way I’d trained her. The mark was holding—Sofia was mine now. Permanently. Completely. The kind of loyalty PR teams dream of and cult leaders get Netflix docs for.

The Perfect Liberation mission was moving forward like clockwork. The family dinner would be the perfect stage. Patricia Morrison liberated at the wellness center first—then the big reveal at dinner.

Jack Morrison, golden boy turned walking punchline, would get front-row seats to his own humiliation.

His girlfriend branded, his mother enthralled, his rival (me) sitting there cool as champagne at brunch. Surrounded by family and business partners, while his entire world collapsed like Lindsay Lohan’s probation calendar.

Sometimes revenge wasn’t just best served cold. Sometimes it was served at the dinner table—on fine china, with a smile, and a side of utter psychological devastation.