CHAPTER 222: PARTY INVITATION

The Fontainebleau Miami Beach penthouse suite hit like a fucking slap from a golden glove. Floor-to-ceiling windows vomiting an ocean that stretched to eternity, marble everywhere—floors, counters, maybe even the light switches—enough space to host a small army of wealthy women screaming silently into their silk pillowcases.

Charlotte face-planted onto the Italian leather couch like someone had just yanked the plug on her battery pack. I half-expected smoke to rise from her temples.

Madison, on the other hand, explored the bathroom with the reverence of a historian finding the lost works of Da Vinci... and let’s be honest, she understood luxury the way some people understand breathing. Heated toilet seats? Rainfall showers that could host orgies?

Happiness, apparently, could be bought, and apparently, Madison had the diploma.

I wasn’t just soaking in the ridiculous wealth. Tactical scanning engaged—exit routes, clear lines of sight to the coastline, soundproof walls that could contain the kind of sounds that would make the NSA blush. Miami was a playground, a hunting ground, and the penthouse? Headquarters.

Charlotte’s phone buzzed.

"Mom?" she answered, that transformation from exhausted CEO to obedient daughter instantaneous, like flipping a switch.

"Charlotte, sweetheart!" Margaret Thompson’s voice rolled through the speaker like bourbon mixed with liquid honey and a PhD in seduction. Every inflection, every small pause, screamed neglected woman who remembers what it’s like to be desired.

"It’s my jet, Mom," Charlotte snapped, rich-girl entitlement fully engaged. "Why are you tracking me like I’m a fugitive from the CIA?"

Margaret laughed, and I swear the sound caused a small tremor in reality. Music. Fucking music. Pure joy layered with subtle temptation—the kind that makes saints reconsider their vows. "Darling, when you own a seventy-five million-dollar aircraft, people notice. I didn’t even ask and someone called me, anyways.... I hear you had... company, which is why I’m calling."

The word company lingered like smoke from a candle no one lit, heavy with the kind of subtext that could fuel a hundred novels.

"Company?" Charlotte glanced at Madison and me, confused, missing the obvious.

"Two passengers," Margaret clarified, voice now dipped in velvet danger. "I’m hoping one of them is that handsome young man you’ve been working with... Eros, wasn’t it? That is the name you told me, right?"

Bingo. Seems like I have been introduced but not as a teenager Peter but as Eros who helps her. Though I could not help wonder why she introduced me as handsome Eros she’s never even seen until today.

But who cares.

I could feel it—the curiosity practically dripping through the phone. Margaret Thompson had been thinking about me. Charlotte had been talking about me. I was already living rent-free in her brain, right there in her subconscious penthouse suite of fantasies.

I let my Eros voice drop just low enough to carry danger, promise, and a hint of chaos. "Bingo."

Immediate effect. Margaret’s breath hitched in that quiet, almost imperceptible way that makes predators like me start vibrating with anticipation.

"Well," she purred, voice dipping a fraction lower, thick with invitation, suggestion, and the kind of authority that makes men do stupid, expensive things, "I was calling to invite you to Amanda’s engagement party tonight. Since you have... company... perhaps you’d all like to join us?"

Charlotte, predictably, started shaking her head. Exhaustion plastered across her like a corporate battle wound. Room service, sleep, maybe a personal masseuse were all she wanted. She was about to decline.

But I had already played my card.

"Bingo."

Charlotte caught my expression and inhaled like she’d just realized someone had handed her the keys to a fucking candy store full of dynamite. Her strategic brain finally caught up to the opportunity that had landed in our laps like a parachute made of pure chaos.

"Where’s the party, Mom?" she asked, voice tentative but already laced with curiosity.

"The rooftop of the Setai," Margaret Thompson purred, southern charm dripping like bourbon over silk. "You know how Amanda loves dramatic entrances. Eight o’clock, cocktail attire."

There was a delicious tension threading through her words, like Christmas morning mixed with the kind of foreplay that makes priests reconsider vows. "It’s going to be quite the celebration. Amanda’s finally found someone who she thinks can... satisfy her particular needs. How wrong!"

The double entendre hung there, rich and potent, like perfume designed to get your pulse into legal trouble. Madison’s eyes went wide with immediate recognition.

That girl calculated faster than Bloomberg algorithms on steroids—probably already figuring out exactly how many sexually starved women would be at this party and how long it would take before my presence ruined them.

"We’ll be there," Charlotte said, her voice carrying determination that made me smirk internally. Even she didn’t realize how perfect this setup was.

"Wonderful! I can’t wait to meet your companions properly," Margaret continued, her tone sliding into the kind of voice women used when imagining possibilities that required less clothing and more imagination. "Eros, I hope you’re prepared for Miami’s... unique hospitality."

"I’m looking forward to experiencing everything Miami has to offer," I replied, letting the resonance of my voice drip just enough temptation to make Madison shift in her seat.

"I’m sure you are," Margaret practically purred, and the sexual undertone in her words was thick enough to choke on if you weren’t careful. "See you tonight, darling."

Click. Silence. And holy shit, the room was vibrating with potential—the kind of electricity that makes gods sweat with anticipation.

"Well," Madison said with a grin that belonged on a shark circling its prey, "that was educational as hell."

Charlotte looked between us, slowly connecting the dots like someone realizing the punchline of a joke they’d been missing for years. "Was my mother just... flirting? With Peter or Eros? While I was right here?"

"Your mother," I said, savoring the delicious weight of the moment, "just handed us the perfect hunting ground. A party full of wealthy women celebrating someone else’s love while probably starving for it themselves. And she invited us in personally."

I checked my watch—6:30 PM. Less than two hours to prepare for what would easily be the most target-rich environment I’d encountered since the system had awakened my abilities.

"ARIA," I thought through our neural link, predatory excitement buzzing in my veins, "analysis of tonight’s opportunities?"

"The Setai rooftop will host approximately sixty guests—forty-seven women, thirteen men," her voice was calm but saturated with data, flooding my consciousness. "Average age of female attendees: thirty-eight. Estimated sexual satisfaction rate among the women: twelve percent. Master, you are walking into a liberation buffet that would make gods weep with joy."

Charlotte was already heading toward her bedroom to prepare, blissfully unaware that her mother had just delivered herself—and every sexually frustrated woman at that party—directly into my hands like a cosmic gift wrapped in silk.

Madison caught my arm as I started toward our room, eyes flashing with dangerous excitement. "Peter," she whispered, that signature smirk curving across her face, "I hope you know exactly what kind of carnage we’re about to cause."

I let my grin curl, predatory, knowing, and impossibly charming. "Oh, princess," I said, voice low and dangerous, "you have no fucking idea."

"How many?" Madison whispered, voice low, dangerous, sharp enough to draw blood if she’d wanted.

"How many what, princess?" I asked, letting the words hang like a promise—and like a threat.

"How many women... are you planning to liberate tonight?"

I let my gaze sweep over the Miami skyline, neon lights and chrome towers stretching into infinity, and felt that familiar hunger coil in my chest like a wildfire just sparking. The kind of hunger that could devour a city if you let it. My godlike form thrummed with anticipation, muscles tightening, instincts screaming that tonight, the world was wide open.

"However many need saving, Madison. However many need saving," I said, voice low, smooth, and entirely lethal in its confidence.

Because this wasn’t about just rescuing Charlotte from corporate vultures anymore. Fuck that. That was just the appetizer.

Tonight was about introducing Miami’s elite to exactly what they’d been missing their entire sexually frustrated lives—the kind of revelation that would make nannies blush and husbands cry in shame.

And Margaret Thompson? She’d just handed herself top spot on the priority list. Prime real estate, center of my attention, first in line to experience whatever the fuck this city was about to get.

I let a smirk curl across my face, teeth catching the light from the skyline like predatory jewelry. Miami had no idea what had just landed in its lap.

And I intended to make every single woman there wish it had been me who’d been waiting all along.