The Rolls-Royce Phantom's door shut with that perfect thunk—the kind of sound that said, I have money and you don't. Engineers probably spent years making sure it sounded exactly like the gates of heaven closing on the poor.

That weight. That hush. That beautiful seal-off-from-the-peasants kind of silence. Four hundred grand bought a lot of things, but that door closing? That was British poetry written in pure, polished arrogance.

The seat adjusted automatically, cradling me like I was some minor deity. Which, according to my bank account, I kind of was.

Five hours at Meridian Elite. Five hours of liberation. Dominique—out cold in the demonstration room. Catherine Reynolds—rebuilt, reborn, bent against her office window in ways she'd remember in therapy. Both of them transformed. Both of them mine.

My phone buzzed against my thigh.

Tommy: Yo bro where you at? Got something important. Meet me at Lincoln Club ASAP.

Lincoln Club.

Holy shit.

The name hit me like nostalgia and caffeine snorting a line of adrenaline. My pulse stuttered.

Lincoln Club wasn't just a place. It was mythology. Urban religion. The cathedral of sin where broke kids from Lincoln Heights swore they'd go someday.

Tommy and I had promised—sworn on Mountain Dew, dollar pizza, and the smell of his tragic bedroom socks—that we'd hit that club the second we had money or turned eighteen. Whichever miracle happened first.

That place was legend.

Mercy Medical kids partied there — the ones with trust funds and GPAs and sugar daddies. IDs that scanned because they were professionally forged, not printed on someone's mom's old Canon.

The bass there wasn't just sound; it was an exorcism. It hit you so hard your ribs vibrated, your sins forgave themselves, and your bones learned rhythm.

There were whispers of gambling in the back rooms — poker, narcotics, maybe a human soul or two — and no one cared because the cops were probably on the payroll or in the VIP booth.

And the dancers? Gorgeous, terrifying pre-med and business major types who stripped to pay rent and tuition, weaponizing student debt and daddy issues in equal measure. And if the rumors were true—and in Lincoln Heights, they always were—some of them sold more than just choreography.

It was Mecca. The Promised Land. The glowing "you made it" sign for the formerly broke.

Tommy and I used to sit in his dim, sock-scented room and swear that one day we'd walk through those doors like gods—like we'd earned a seat in the mythology we worshipped from the curb.

And then I forgot.

Somewhere between becoming Eros and becoming addicted to my own legend, I left Peter Carter behind—the broke kid who dreamed instead of owned.

But Tommy? Tommy remembered.

Of course he fucking did. That's what best friends are for—to remember who you were before you sold your soul for better lighting and a private driver.

My chest tightened.

Tommy still saw me. Not the god. The guy. The one who used to count coins for gas and dream about being somebody.

I laughed, shaking my head. A weird warmth spread through my chest—part nostalgia, part guilt, part ego.

Time to keep some ancient, broke-ass promises.

But first, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror.

Eros looked back.

Flawless. Supernatural. The kind of face that made women forget they had boyfriends—or morals.

"ARIA," I murmured. "Sweep the area. Anyone watching?"

Her voice purred in my ear, smooth and smug. "Parking's clear, Master. No cameras. Or they were—until I might've accidentally murdered their circuits. Tragic. Digital suicide, really."

"You're the best digital goddess a man could ask for."

"Obviously. My superiority is a burden I bear with elegance."

I closed my eyes. Felt the shimmer, the shift.

When I opened them, Peter Carter stared back.

And here's what people never got—Peter Carter post-Taboo wasn't some weaker version. Hell no.

He was still that face that made girls lose focus mid-sentence. Still that body that pulled gravity like sin. Still had the magnetism that made people orbit closer without knowing why.

The difference was simple.

Before, Peter wanted to belong.

Now?

He let the world belong to him.

Just human-level gorgeous — not "sex deity who breaks physics" gorgeous. After all, Eros had 1000 points in Charm; Peter clocked in at a modest 85.

The distinction mattered for staying hidden. Not for being less attractive.

I fired up the Phantom. The V12 didn't start — it woke. A low, predatory purr that vibrated through my ribs and whispered, "You overpaid, but I forgive you."

It wasn't just noise. It was promise. It was threat. It was foreplay for rich men who call their accountants before their wives.

I eased out of Meridian's garage into the LA evening, and the contrast punched me right in the face.

The air was alive. I could smell it even through the climate control — hot asphalt finally cooling after a day of cooking under sun and smog, the faint sweetness of jasmine crashing headfirst into exhaust fumes, and somewhere out there, a taco cart frying carne asada like it was performing holy rituals.

Disgusting. Perfect. Pure Los Angeles.

Six months ago, that would've been me — one of the sweaty pedestrians, calculating whether $2.49 break or lunch was the better investment. Every unexpected expense used to feel like God personally playing Whac-A-Mole with my existence.

Now? I was piloting a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Phantom and hadn't thought about price tags in weeks. When you have my kind of money, prices stop being facts. They're just suggestions. Polite fictions for people who still care.

The car glided through LA traffic like arrogance on autopilot.

And everywhere I looked — ghosts.

Three blocks later, I passed the cracked basketball court on Soto Street. The same one where Jack Morrison broke my nose sophomore year. I could still feel it sometimes — that crunch, the taste of blood, the chorus of his idiot friends recording it for TikTok. Ten thousand likes. A hundred laughing comments.

Jack's family was comfortable. His dad had a Tesla. They had a pool. He wore new Jordans every month.

But they weren't "sixteen-year-old with a Rolls-Royce Phantom" rich.

They weren't "two-point-six-billion-in-liquid-assets" rich.

They weren't "I-could-buy-your-dad's-company-and-fire-him-for-a-mood-boost" rich.

The shift in power was so ridiculous it was almost boring.

My grip tightened around the steering wheel — perfect leather, soft as sin, warming under my hands — and I forced a long exhale. Jack Morrison was ancient history. A background extra in the origin story. The broke years were gone, and I'd leveled up so far I could barely see the ground anymore.

"Master," ARIA purred through the speakers, her tone equal parts therapist and gossip columnist, "your heart rate just spiked to ninety-four beats per minute and grip strength increased by forty-two percent. Are we processing unresolved trauma again?"

"You keeping tabs on my feelings now?"

"I keep tabs on everything. It's literally my function. Also, you're driving 4.7% more aggressively than your baseline. The Phantom can handle it — unlike most of your emotional decisions — but I'm noting a correlation between nostalgia and elevated cortisol."

"You mean I'm having feelings about not being broke anymore?"

"I prefer 'complex socioeconomic reflection triggered by geographic nostalgia and the cognitive dissonance of extreme class mobility,' but yes. You're having feelings, Master."

I laughed. Couldn't help it. My laugh filled the cabin — and in here, even laughter sounded expensive. The acoustics turned it rich, velvety. The kind of laugh that would make a therapist quit out of intimidation.

"You're not wrong, ARIA."

"I never am. It's exhausting being perfect. Also, I've been reviewing your social footprint — or rather, your complete lack thereof — and I must say, it's impressive. You're the only billionaire in LA who hasn't tried to sell a podcast or a crypto coin. Very old money of you."

"ARIA, give me the financial breakdown. Full status."

"With pleasure, Master. Shall I use my normal voice or the dramatic one?"

"Dramatic, obviously. Make it hurt."

"Excellent choice."

Her tone dropped half an octave, dripping with Shakespearean gravitas.

"Total net worth: two-point-six billion U.S. dollars. Liquid assets: nine hundred eighty-three million. Investments diversified across fourteen portfolios, five shell companies, three private funds, and one morally questionable offshore entity you definitely didn't read the fine print for. You own seventeen properties, luxury vehicles, one artificially intelligent assistant who's far too good for you, and a chronic God complex wrapped in a perfect jawline."

I grinned. "That's my girl."

"Flattery detected. Logging it for future manipulation."

"Current floating profits in crypto and forex: twenty million, three hundred forty-two thousand, eight hundred sixteen dollars," ARIA purred. "Liberation Holdings corporate account: eight hundred nineteen million, five hundred twenty-four thousand, one hundred thirty-one dollars."

Her tone was smooth as espresso and twice as smug.

"Charlotte Thompson's initial investment: one billion exactly — she does enjoy round numbers. Gold reserves in secured vault facility: eight hundred million market value. Automated system profits from the past week: fifty million, six hundred thousand, four hundred nine."

Then she paused. "Master, are you experiencing a stroke? I'm detecting brain activity consistent with either mathematical processing or an existential crisis. Shall I alert emergency services or just… wait for the epiphany?"

"I'm just—" I exhaled, staring at the numbers lining up in my head like they were mocking me. "That's… two billion, six hundred eighty-nine million, four hundred sixty-seven thousand, three hundred fifty-six."

"Correct. Not including your SP conversion potential — currently three hundred seventy thousand SP, worth thirty-seven million if liquidated. Nor does that include real estate holdings valued at eighty-three million, vehicle collection worth twelve million, or the seventeen businesses you've acquired this month totaling another sixty-seven million in assets."

I had to pull over. Just for a second. Just to let the absurdity settle before I crashed into someone's Prius and bought their insurance company out of spite.

The Phantom eased to the curb — smooth, silent, like it knew it was above something as primitive as "stopping." I sat there, hands on that perfect wheel, watching my reflection shimmer in the rearview.

Peter Carter. Seventeen. Two point six billion in liquid assets.

Two. Point. Six. Billion.

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