CHAPTER 223: THE HAREM CONFERENCE CALL

The call didn’t just connect—it detonated. One second, the penthouse was dead quiet. The next, my phone screen lit up with seven women’s faces, like I’d just unlocked some god-tier collector’s edition of heaven’s finest DLC.

Madison was right beside me, lounging with the smug authority of a season finale villain who already knows she’s getting the spin-off. Janet, Luna, and Isabella flanked the screen, each one styled like they’d been photoshopped straight out of a billionaire’s wet dream. And then the other three faces blinked in—Victoria, Anya, and Ortega from the wellness center—and suddenly my phone wasn’t a phone anymore.

Suddenly my phone wasn’t a phone anymore—it was an OnlyFans teaser I couldn’t afford even if I sold my soul on eBay.

Seven women. All mine. All staring at me like the climax of the most illegal Netflix dating show in history.

The silence shattered. Luna gasped like she’d just spotted her ex on Love Island.

"You—" Luna gasped, color draining out of her face like a bad Instagram filter.

"Ms. Luna—" Isabella snapped at the exact same time, recognition sizzling between them like live wires.

Of course. The school colleagues. The Dark Lord (me) had just pulled a crossover event that made Avengers: Endgame look like an off-brand CW pilot.

Before the call could go nuclear, Madison leaned in, all teeth and executioner calm, and sliced the tension with one surgical line. "Okay, ladies. Save the soap opera for later. Our man has something to say."

Our man.

Our man...

Two words. That’s it. But they hit like thunder rolling through my skull. Madison didn’t say them casually. She said them with the same ironclad tone Charlotte used when she dropped million-dollar contracts on mahogany tables and other furniture for my new place. And the insane part?

None of them—not one single goddess on that glowing screen—corrected her.

No awkward laugh. No "wait, hold on." Nothing.

Just silence. And worse or best: Acceptance.

And that’s when it slammed into me like a freight train doing 120.

Two weeks ago, I was invisible. Background static. A ghost haunting his own life. People noticed the janitor’s mop bucket more than Peter Carter until Jack threw me in them. Hell, I noticed the mop bucket more than Peter Carter.

But now?

Now I was staring at seven women so far out of my league they weren’t even playing the same sport. Seven women orbiting me like I was the goddamn sun and they were contractually obligated planets. Madison had just dropped it to the universe: our man.

And no one argued. No pushback. No dissent. Just... inevitability. And they knew Eros. All of them knew Peter Carter.

Peter Carter had a harem. A real, actual, someone-call-HBO-Max harem. And it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t questioned. It felt natural. Like gravity itself had resigned to the fact that this chaos engine of a nobody had bent reality to his will.

My chest felt like it might rupture under the weight of it. Seven sets of eyes. No skepticism. No doubt. Just recognition. They’d all silently agreed—individually, collectively, cosmically—that yeah. This guy. This enhanced disaster with a mouth full of jokes and blood on his hands. He wasn’t orbiting them. They were orbiting him.

Madison’s fingers slid around mine, squeezing with the confidence of a queen who knew she’d just coronated her king. Her smirk wasn’t encouragement—it was a verdict.

"You did this," her look said. "You made the impossible real."

And fuck me, she was right.

All of them mine. My phone looked less like FaceTime and more like the world’s most illegal OnlyFans trailer."

"Ladies," I said, letting my enhanced voice roll across the digital connection like Morgan Freeman narrating a porno. Authority I never had back when I was Regular Peter, the background NPC. "Let me introduce you all properly."

Seven faces stared back at me like I’d just summoned the Avengers—if the Avengers wore lingerie and had divorce lawyers on speed dial. Janet, Luna, Victoria, Anya, Ortega, Isabella—each one a different flavor of masterpiece. And all of them mine. My phone didn’t look like FaceTime anymore; it looked like a collector’s edition Pokémon card set for men with absolutely no self-control.

"And last but definitely not least," I said, turning to Madison, "this is Madison Torres, my first woman. And honestly, if it wasn’t for her, maybe none of you would be here with me right now."

That wasn’t just game—it was gospel. Madison wasn’t a supporting character, she was the series pilot. She lit the fuse the night she decided to fuck me, then kept throwing gasoline on the fire: Isabella’s seduction? Madison. The wellness center gig where I picked up three women in a single afternoon? Madison. The only ones she didn’t hand-deliver were Janet and Luna—and even they were downstream of the confidence injection she’d mainlined into me.

Basically, if my harem was an MLM, Madison was the upline boss raking in the commission.

"Wait, hold up," Isabella said, eyebrows climbing, her teacher brain clearly trying to file paperwork. "How do you all know each other exactly from the same man? This is fucking surreal."

"Peter," Janet said, laughing in that milf-who-knows-your-credit-score way, "we all know Peter in very... intimate ways."

"Some more intimate than others," Anya purred, grinning like she’d just melted a steel beam for fun.

Luna’s face turned red faster than a YouTuber’s apology video. The poor woman had just realized she was on a call with her colleague, all trading sex notes. "This is insane. I mean, Peter, how did you even—"

"Magic dick," Ortega cut in, stone-faced, like she was reading an obituary. Everyone exploded laughing.

"Speaking of magic," Isabella said, wearing that wicked smirk like a crown, "maybe Luna and I should have a threesome at school. I mean, I’ve already had several with Madison."

The bomb she just dropped made every jaw on screen hit the floor. If this was a reality show, producers would’ve cut to commercial. Then came the laughter—raucous, shameless, like group therapy for degenerates.

"Jesus Christ, Isabella," Luna squeaked, face buried in her hands. "You can’t just say shit like that."

"Why not?" Isabella fired back without missing a beat. "We’re all family now, right?"

Family. The kind of family that’d get banned from Thanksgiving. But still.

That’s the beauty of MILFs—they skip the fake innocence, go straight for the jugular. They want it, they say it, they take it. And I was the idiot lucky enough to be holding the keys to the candy store.

"Actually," I said, reclining into the hotel pillows like I was shooting a Calvin Klein ad, "I need to let you all know I’m not in Lincoln Heights right now. I won’t be back for a few days."

"Where are you?" Victoria asked, CEO-mode activating.

"Miami. Business trip."

The second the words left my mouth, they all burst out laughing like I’d just done stand-up at the Apollo.

"Business trip, right," Janet cackled, wiping away tears. "Given how fast you’re collecting us, we’re expecting you to come back with a new sister or two."

"S-Sisters?" I blinked, because apparently, I’d missed that lore drop.

They all nodded like this was common knowledge. "That’s what we are now, right?" Anya asked.

Madison—Queenmaker, Architect, Chaos Enabler—smiled beside me. "Yes. We’re all sisters in this. Sisters who share the same incredible man."

And right there, Madison said it like a Supreme Court ruling. Binding. Final. Nobody objected.

"In that case," Isabella declared with zero shame, "I demand a group orgy when he gets back!"