The soft chime of the doorbell was a distant star in the quiet universe of the penthouse. In my arms, Isabella stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Mm? What—?"

"Shh," I murmured, my voice a low rumble against her hair. I pressed the remote clipped to the bedside, and a soft click echoed through the hidden speakers as the lock disengaged. "Sleep. I'll get it."

I slipped free from the warm tangle of her limbs, the cool air of the hall a welcome shock. I moved in silence, a ghost in my own home. ARIA's voice whispered in my quantum earbud, a cool, detached stream of data:

"It's Maya Rodriguez and two Concierge staff entering Penthouse 5101. Arrival complete.]

I didn't need the cameras. I could feel the shift in the air's pressure, the cautious weight of new footsteps, the low murmur of professional courtesy as the staff guided trolleys carrying her life inside.

I leaned against the wall just beyond the living room's curve, shrouded in shadow, watching.

The hotel staff were phantom limbs—efficient, invisible. They transferred the luggage, a chaotic mix of canvas duffels, a scarred guitar case, and a few taped cardboard boxes, toward the other bedroom.

A polite nod, a quiet retreat, and then the elevator doors sighed shut, leaving behind a sudden, echoing silence.

And her.

She stood alone in the center of the vast living room, a study in delicate contradictions.

From behind, she was a silhouette of fragility and strength. An oversized white dress shirt, the cuffs rolled to her forearms, was cinched at her waist, draping over a black skirt that ended a generous mid-thigh.

The fabric hinted at a body that was both lithe and unexpectedly soft, a dancer's muscles hidden beneath feminine curves.

Her dark brown hair fell in loose waves to her shoulder blades, and when she turned her head slightly, I caught the glint of light on the lenses of her glasses—an earnest, bookish detail that felt wildly out of place.

She began a slow pivot, her head craning back to take in the cathedral ceilings, then the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed Los Angeles as a glittering, fallen jewel. Her wonder was a palpable thing, an aura of disbelief that made the air around her hum.

As she shifted her weight, the skirt pulled taut across her ass, revealing a small, pert curve that was utterly perfect. It was a subtle, unconscious movement, but it sent a sharp, primal jolt straight through me—a low, predatory hum of interest that tightened my gut and focused my entire being on the woman in my living room.

This was the part I savored. The moment before the first word. The quiet appraisal of the new arrival, before she knew she was being watched.

Creepy much.

But her backside that commanded attention—small, perfectly rounded, a gentle curve that gave her silhouette a surprising, innate allure.

The soft fabric of her shirt clung to her form, hinting at the breathtaking reality it concealed: enormous, womanly breasts that seemed almost impossibly generous on her slender frame, their outline unmistakable even from this angle.

She turned slowly, drawn like a magnet to the breathtaking panorama of Los Angeles through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As she faced the room, her eyes swept across it—and then locked directly with mine.

Time stopped.

We both froze.

All for different reasons.

For her, it was likely the sheer impact of my appearance—something unmatched and unquestionable, my auras too.

For me, it was different.

Not because of the giant mounds that seemed almost surreal on her slim frame—though holy shit, those were big, undoubtedly enormous, straining against her shirt with her tie nestled between them like it was being swallowed. All that faded the moment I saw her small face behind her glasses.

Not because of the way her body defied physics with those proportions.

It was her face.

Small. Delicate. Green eyes behind those glasses. A small nose. Small lips. Everything about her compact and precise and achingly familiar.

Too familiar.

"Maya!" The name slipped out before I could stop it. Why hadn't I made the connection?

Recognition was a physical blow, a seismic shock that reverberated through my entire being. Maya.

But not just any Maya. My Maya.

Maya.

Of course. Of fucking course. In Lincoln Heights, there could only be one Maya. One girl with that face, those eyes, that soft uncertain voice.

My brain was short-circuiting. This was Maya. The Maya. From elementary school. From middle school. The quiet girl. The one who'd—

Why hadn't I connected the dots? Isabella Rodriguez. Maya Rodriguez. Same last name. Same neighborhood history.

How had I been so blind?

Because six years ago, I'd been Peter Carter, the kid who got thrown in trash cans. And Maya had been just another student.

I hadn't known her mother then.

Hadn't known Isabella existed.

And I hadn't known that six years later, now I'd here where we were—me as her mother's boyfriend, standing in a penthouse I'd bought for her mom, looking at a girl, I'd known my entire childhood.

She was here. In this penthouse. Standing mere yards from where her mother slept.

Dressed in clothes that spoke of teen seduction, but with the same small, serious face I remembered—glasses perched on her nose, wide green eyes behind them, dark lashes, her lips parted in sheer awe.

"Y-You must be M-Mr. Eros..." Her voice was soft, threaded with the same shy, velvet quality I recalled, but now layered with reverence and a deep, palpable uncertainty. The formal address—"Mr. Eros"—felt like a knife twist.

Of course, she didn't know I was Peter Carter.

To her, I was just a mythic figure, her mother's impossibly handsome and wealthy boyfriend. A stranger.

But I knew her. The irony was a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under. This was the girl who'd been a year ahead of me. Seventeen TO my sixteen. The quiet presence in the background of my own school life. And now… I was about to be introduced as the man in her mother's life.

"Uh, yeah. It's nice to finally meet you, Maya." My voice, to my own surprise, was steady, my composure an unbreachable wall. But internally, my world was spinning. Peter Carter… meet the girl you noticed as part of your history, the one who just became your stepdaughter-in-all-but-name?

A furious blush ignited on her cheeks, spreading down her neck. Her gaze dropped from mine, suddenly fascinated by the intricate veins in the marble floor. "You're so..." she began, then trailed off, too overwhelmed to finish. Perfectly timed awkwardness. Perfectly, endearingly Maya.

In that suspended moment, as I truly looked at her—not as a stranger, but as the girl from my past now standing in my present—something fundamental shifted inside me. The raw lust I felt for Isabella, the consuming hunger for my other women… it all receded, overshadowed by the sheer, overwhelming power of familiarity.

This was Maya. The shy, impossibly cute girl.

'Oh, Maya,' I thought, a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with a profound, unexpected connection. 'You're still so heartbreakingly cute. How is anyone supposed to resist this?'

I won't, Maya, I won't! Or...

The full weight of the situation settled over me—her palpable innocence, her bewildered presence, the staggering, surreal irony. This was no longer just about desire or conquest. It was about something deeper.

This was the daughter of the woman I loved. And, unbeknownst to her, she was also a ghost from my own so personal history.

The surrealism of it was crushing. Our history with Maya wasn't just because we shared schools until she disappeared, our history was complicated and personal for both of us, and she had not idea that I was that Peter Carter!

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