The hours with Mom had been a sanctuary. We'd eaten, laughed, and gotten lost in the predictable drama of her reality shows. I'd wrapped her in a gentle, soothing blanket of pheromones, a subtle pressure that smoothed away the sharp edges of her guilt whenever she started to fret about how natural it felt to fall asleep against my chest on the couch.

Each time I felt that familiar tension coil in her shoulders, I'd simply pull the psychic blanket tighter, and she'd melt back into me with a soft sigh.

We played silly board games, and her laughter—real, unguarded, and joyful—was the most surreal and beautiful sound I'd heard in years. It was the most genuine fun I'd had with her in a decade, no cap.

I stayed until Charlotte and the twins returned, their energy filling the house with a different kind of warmth. But I had to bounce a few minutes later. I had plans.

Isabella had agreed to another night away from the estate. Her daughter was at a "homework sleepover" at a friend's—a classic, transparent, and wonderfully effective teenage excuse. Before I'd brought her into the fold after yesterday's shopping spree, she and her daughter had been staying in a bleak motel. Now, she was free for the evening.

Before I left, Mom spent a solid ten minutes circling the girls's cars my AMG One, her hands clasped under her chin as if in prayer.

She stared at the carbon-fiber curves, exclaiming over the paint job that seemed to drink the light, flinching with a giggle when I gave the throttle a blip, making the engine snarl with the sound of a contained thunderstorm. I couldn't blame her.

The car was a fucking religious experience on wheels.

I found Isabella not far from Mom's house. She was standing on a street corner, phone pressed to her ear, laughing. But this wasn't the polite, professional chuckle I'd seen her use for years at school.

This was a full-bodied, face-lighting-up laugh that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her free hand gestured animatedly, painting pictures in the air. This was the genuine smile I'd worked so hard to unlock from four years of sexual frustration and lonely nights, but I'd never seen it directed at anyone else but me—certainly not Madison, who had been ghosting me with the intensity of a professional spy.

Seeing her like this, so effortlessly happy with someone on the phone, sent a curious, possessive thrill through me.

I pulled the AMG to the curb, its low purr a whisper of wealth and power. I signaled for her to finish her call, content to just watch this unguarded version of her.

She spotted me, and the smile on her face widened, shifting into something intimate and dangerous. She ended the call and strode toward the car.

I got out, moving to open the passenger door like a gentleman.

She bypassed the door entirely. Her hands came up, cupping my face with a possessiveness that stole my breath, and she kissed me.

It wasn't a greeting. It was a claiming. Her mouth crashed against mine with a pent-up hunger that spoke of a day spent thinking of nothing else.

Her tongue found mine immediately, a deep, searching invasion that tasted of cherries and mint—her lip gloss and the iced tea she must have been drinking. A small, desperate moan vibrated from her throat into my mouth.

My hands found her waist, pulling her flush against me. She responded by molding her body to mine, every soft curve—the press of her breasts against my chest, the alignment of her hips—fitting with a perfection that felt preordained.

One of her hands slid up into my hair, her fingers tightening, tugging just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight down my spine. The other gripped my shoulder, anchoring herself as if I were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

The kiss deepened, becoming a raw exchange of need. She sucked my lower lip, bit it with a gentle pressure that made my knees weak, then soothed the tiny sting with a sweep of her tongue. It was a move of such instinctual, devastating skill that my brain short-circuited, leaving only sensation.

When she finally broke away, we were both breathing in ragged gasps. Her lipstick was obliterated, smeared around her kiss-swollen, gleaming lips. Her eyes were dark pools of pure desire, her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.

She didn't say a word. She just looked at me, her expression a mixture of triumph and dizzying want. The message was clear: the drive was just the beginning.

"Hi," she said, grinning like she'd just won the lottery and set the ticket on fire just to watch me scramble.

"Jesus Christ, Isabella." The words came out on a breath I didn't remember taking, my lips still tingling from her ambush.

"You complaining?" She traced her thumb along my lower lip, smearing away the cherry-red evidence she'd left behind. Her touch was deliberate—possessive. The kind that rewires your pulse without asking permission.

"Do I look like I'm complaining?" My voice came out rougher than I meant. Too real.

She laughed—that full, unguarded sound that had started to feel like a drug—and slid into the passenger seat with the lazy confidence of a cat that had devoured the cream and claimed the dairy.

I closed her door, the soft thunk of carbon fiber sealing us in. The AMG One settled into a low, predatory purr as I slid behind the wheel. The entire machine vibrated with leashed violence.

Instead of driving one of her own cars—the Maserati or Ferrari—she'd hitched a ride with Emma in the Porsche to here. The girls had staged a full automotive parade for Mom's benefit: Sarah piloting her new car with Charlotte riding shotgun, Emma leading with Isabella, and the whole fleet rolling up the mansion's drive like they'd just conquered Monaco.

Mom had nearly needed a chair to process the sight of her daughters arriving like royalty with their own motorcade.

But Isabella had other plans.

So here she was.

I merged into traffic, the AMG instantly becoming the city's gravitational center. A kid on a skateboard nearly became road art trying to film us. The AMG One didn't attract attention; it commanded worship.

"Who were you talking to?" I asked, eyes on the road but focus entirely on her. That laugh of hers—it wasn't just a sound. It was a spark. Who else got to light it?

"Madison," she said breezily, as if she'd just named the weather.

The wheel jerked in my hands. The car twitched—half a heartbeat of chaos—before I corrected, earning an indignant honk from a minivan that clearly didn't understand greatness when it almost brushed against it.

"Madison," I repeated slowly. "Madison Torres. My girlfriend. The one ghosting my messages like sunlight's bad for her complexion."

"That's the one." Isabella's smile curved into something truly wicked—sharp, bright, and very aware of what it was doing to me.

"She's ghosting me to laugh with you?" The words tasted like ash and ego. "What am I now, a fucking cherished memory?"

Isabella exploded into laughter—pure, helpless, tears-in-her-eyes laughter. "This! This is exactly what Madison said you'd do!" she gasped. "She told me, 'Watch, when he finds out, he's going to have that exact look—like a kicked puppy with a god complex!'"

Perfect.

Just perfect.

My life had officially turned into a sitcom, and I was the straight man in someone else's episode.

So that was the plan. Radio silence wasn't avoidance—it was a joint operation. My girlfriend and my harem had teamed up to roast me. I wasn't a protagonist anymore; I was the punchline.

I drove in tight-lipped silence, jaw locked, while Isabella's laughter melted into smaller, satisfied giggles.

"Are you mad?" she asked, wiping a tear from her eye.

I said nothing.

"Peter?" she tried again, voice softening.

Still nothing.

"Master?" she purred finally, deploying the title that usually reduced my brain to static.

I kept my eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel. That silence was apparently her breaking point, because she dissolved into another peal of laughter.

"Oh my God," she wheezed and started filming, "you're actually pouting! Madison's going to love this. She made me promise to record your reaction, but this—this is even better than she predicted."

"Glad I could be so entertaining," I said dryly, every syllable dipped in ego and restraint.

"Don't be like that." Her hand found my thigh, warm and deliberate, a soothing squeeze that carried equal parts comfort and control. "She loves you, you idiot. She's just been busy with… things."

"Things," I echoed flatly.

"Yes, things," Isabella repeated, her smile tilting into that maddeningly enigmatic curve. "Secret things. Girl things. Things you'll find out about when she's ready."

"So let me get this straight," I said, keeping my voice calm enough to be dangerous. "She's ghosting me for secret girl things, while pre-emptively laughing with you about how I'd react to being ghosted."

"Exactly!" she said brightly. "See? You understand now." She patted my leg like a teacher rewarding a slow student who'd finally passed basic comprehension.

I wanted to stay mad. The ego demanded it—every ounce of masculine pride wanted to keep its teeth bared. But looking at Isabella—really looking at her—I saw the light that hadn't been there before. The vibrant, defiant woman who'd clawed her way out of the gray life she used to live.

And if this new spark—this laughter and color and ease—was partly fueled by her teaming up with Madison to toy with me… then fine. I could take the hit.

If it made her happy, I'd take the L with grace.

"You two are terrible," I muttered, the words soft but real.

"We really are," Isabella agreed cheerfully. "It's wonderful."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was alive. The low hum of the AMG filled it, the kind of silence that vibrated against the skin like a pulse.

Then ARIA's voice slid through the quiet, smooth as silk over glass. "Master," she said, her tone precise, composed, and faintly ominous. "I've completed the analysis. At this pace, the Sterling Downfall Protocol will be ready in exactly two weeks."

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