CHAPTER 231: QUEENS CREATE THEIR KINGDOM

The party was hitting that sweet spot where expensive champagne met weaponized sexual frustration, and everyone finally dropped the façade of social propriety like last season’s Prada. Our circle wasn’t just the center of attention—it was the black hole of the entire rooftop. Every other conversation faded into meaningless background noise compared to the raw voltage sparking between us.

"Ladies," Vivienne said, pulling out her phone with the mischievous smile of a woman who once burned her marriage papers and toasted marshmallows over them, "we absolutely cannot let this evening end without staying connected."

"Oh my God, yes," Anastasia practically purred. Of course she did—pharmaceutical heiress with more money than serotonin, desperate for stimulation that didn’t come in pill form. "I refuse to go back to my boring life without access to this level of... chemistry."

Madison shot me that look—half amused, half impressed, fully aroused. My girlfriend wasn’t just tolerating Miami’s elite women reorganizing their sexual priorities around me like I was the Messiah in a tux—she was enjoying it. She looked like a director proud of her lead actor.

"Group chat," Celeste declared. Of course the gallery owner would be the archivist. "Right fucking now."

The phones came out in perfect synchronicity. I swear, if Apple ever needed a commercial about efficiency, this moment would’ve sold more iPhones than TikTok thirst traps. These women moved like boardroom assassins closing a billion-dollar merger, which—in their heads—they basically were.

"What should we call it?" Sophia asked, cataloging this moment like it belonged in a museum exhibition titled ’The Night Miami Women Remembered They Had Options.’

"The Collective," Isabelle suggested, her French accent wrapping the word in silk and lingerie.

"Too vague," Amanda countered, twirling her engagement ring like it was already a pawn shop trinket. Bride-to-be and fresh out of fucks. "We need something that captures the essence of what we’re building here."

"The Appreciation Society," Margaret purred, smiling the kind of smile that suggested she understood exactly what was being appreciated—spoiler: it wasn’t the champagne.

"Perfect," Vivienne laughed, already typing. "The Appreciation Society it is."

And just like that, I was officially inducted into a cult. A very exclusive, high-heeled cult with perfect manicures and unmet needs.

"There," Vivienne announced, tucking her phone away like a magician after a final flourish. "Now we can coordinate our... appreciation activities properly."

The first messages hit like gunfire:

Vivienne:Welcome to paradise, handsome 😈Anastasia:Finally, a group chat worth checking

Celeste:This is going to be so much more interesting than my usual conversationsAshby:I have a feeling this will be my favorite notification sound 💋Sophia:Already looking forward to our first group appreciation sessionAmanda:Best engagement party gift everMargaret:Ladies, I think we’ve created something beautiful hereMadison:You’re all absolutely insane and I love every bit of it

I typed back: Thanks for the warm welcome. Looking forward to appreciating all of you properly.

The symphony of notification pings that followed wasn’t just sexual frustration—it was the sound of Pandora’s box opening and realizing the contents were all wearing couture.

"Well," Vivienne said, slipping her phone back into her clutch with a satisfaction that belonged to women fresh off alimony payments, "now that we’ve established our network, I think some of us have... preparations to make."

Her eyes burned into me. Melt steel, ruin lives, destroy nations kind of stare. "I have some pieces in my private collection that would benefit from a more... hands-on evaluation."

"What a coincidence," Anastasia purred. Pharmaceutical heiress, remember? Even her dirty talk sounded like clinical trials. "I have some formulations that require very specific testing with the right subject."

"Testing requires precision," Ashby slid in smoothly, every syllable undressing itself. Her French cadence could make tax codes sound erotic. "And the right subject makes all the difference."

Celeste leaned in like she was trying to appraise the veins in my wrist. "Some treasures are too rare to stay locked away in storage. They need display. Private display."

Amanda—God bless her chaotic, reckless little soul—swirled her champagne and tossed her grenade. "I’ll just say it: Miami feels less like home and more like an opportunity zone." The bride-to-be said this while her fiancé sulked fifteen feet away, practicing his role as future divorce statistic.

Then Margaret, the queen herself amongst, dropped her voice low and commanding: "Ladies, pace yourselves. The Appreciation Society isn’t a one-night affair. Consider this... a campaign. Long-term. Strategic."

And fuck me if that didn’t sound like she was planning an actual invasion.

I leaned back, letting the tension curl around me like cigar smoke. "Careful," I said, smooth as the champagne sliding down my throat. "When goddesses plan campaigns, empires tend to fall."

The silence that followed wasn’t shocked. It was hungry. The kind of silence that tastes like sweat, perfume, and bad decisions waiting to happen.

That’s when ARIA slid back into my consciousness like an ice cube dropped down the spine: "Master, the operatives are repositioning. Their line of sight has shifted. They’re preparing something... tactical."

I smiled at Celeste like she’d just told me she kept a Da Vinci in her garage, while in my head I thought: Details, ARIA.

"Working. But understand—this circle you’ve built? To them, it looks like a vulnerability. You’re not just a target anymore. You’re leverage."

Which, honestly, only made the entire night taste better.

Because nothing says aphrodisiac like being worshipped by Miami’s elite while three ex-CIA spooks aim rifles at your head.

*

These women weren’t just flirting—they were coordinating their seduction strategies in plain sight, right in front of their oblivious husbands. And it was the most beautiful act of guerrilla warfare I’d ever witnessed.

"Darling," Vivienne said to her ex-husband Robert, who’d been orbiting the group all night like a rejected puppy hoping someone might throw him a bone, "I’m absolutely exhausted. I think I’ll head home early."

Robert’s face lit up with the desperate glow of a man who still believed in second chances. "Should I call the driver? We could—"

"Oh no, sweetie," Vivienne cut him off with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. "I’m taking my own car. You stay and enjoy the... stimulating company."

The way she spat stimulating while staring directly at me was basically foreplay with extra steps. Robert’s face cycled through the usual phases—confusion, suspicion, then inevitable defeat. Poor bastard probably still thought lingerie and nostalgia might win her back.

Meanwhile, Vivienne was already mentally selecting which lace set would look best tossed on my floor.

"I should probably head out too," Anastasia announced, loud enough for Viktor to hear her. Her pharmaceutical-tycoon husband straightened in alarm.

"But Nastya," Viktor protested, his thick Russian accent adding ’discount villain’ energy to the mix, "we have breakfast meeting with Whitman Industries—"

"Viktor," she said slowly, as if explaining algebra to a dog, "some opportunities require immediate attention. I’m sure you can handle Harold without me."

Hope. Confusion. Rage. Defeat.

The same predictable male emotional cycle. These guys had grown so used to treating their wives like furniture that they couldn’t compute what was happening in real time—women making independent decisions right under their noses.

Celeste and Isabelle made their exits like synchronized assassins, both citing urgent business that couldn’t possibly wait.

Translation: Lingerie, Uber, my address in the next days.

Sophia murmured something about an early museum board meeting, though the only exhibit she’d be handling tomorrow would involve significantly fewer clothes and absolutely no donors.