Her ruling? Jack got two weeks' suspension, four grand in damages, and a seat in the Hall of Dumb Choices. He was also benched from the team, which probably hurt more than the bruises. His trust fund tears didn't move anyone. Ashford handed down punishment like she'd been waiting all semester to enjoy the sound of the gavel.

Me? Two grand fine, mostly for landscaping and "disruption." Basically a pat on the wrist disguised as paperwork.

She also brought up the Trent situation — the predator I'd put in the hospital a few weeks back. She said Monday would be our final "discussion" about it. Which, in Ashford-speak, meant something deeper.

The air between us had been weird lately — charged, full of tension neither of us could name without risking our jobs. She was too smart to flirt; I was too smart to stop noticing. Monday was going to mean something.

I just didn't know what yet.

Meanwhile, Lea and Kayla kept popping up like bad ads, both trying to corner me for "talks" that weren't really about talking. I dodged them like a professional. Ex-crush drama wasn't on my to-do list. My mental inbox was already full.

And while I was playing defense against high school chaos, the real storm was brewing somewhere bigger — inside Quantum Tech.

Wednesday morning, before the prototypes were even done cooking, the marketing machine woke up and went feral. Rivera Next Media, every outlet they owned, and half the internet lit up with AR.NuN teasers. Ads. Billboards. Streaming spots. It was everywhere — like the city had been hijacked by a single word.

Charlotte and Tommy were suddenly celebrities. Three interviews a day each, bouncing between morning shows, podcasts, business segments, lifestyle interviews. It kinda felt like an overnight, change where they'd gone from "brilliant nerds in the basement" to "faces of the future."

Everywhere you looked — TV, buses, trending hashtags — there they were, explaining how AR.NuN was going to change the damn world. Smarter people. Healthier minds. The AI humanity had been promised for decades, finally real.

And it was working. People were losing their collective minds. Pre-orders weren't even open yet, but the Quantum Tech site was already crashing from traffic. Forums were melting down. Tech blogs were pushing new theories every hour like prophets in a gold rush.

Even the stock market was twitching — competitor numbers dipping while analysts scrambled to figure out whether Quantum Tech was the real deal or just smoke with style.

And me? I could feel it in my bones. Monday's launch was going to nuke the internet. Not crash it — vaporize it.

Thursday afternoon hit like a fever dream I couldn't quite sweat out. I was still trying to process Patricia's damn key card and Mrs. Morrison's full-contact "therapy session" when my phone lit up with a number that made my stomach clench.

Ava Voss. The woman who'd played poker with the devil in Miami and somehow made him pay the bill. She was the one who'd brokered our deal — Quantum Tech's private handshake with the federal government.

Her voice came sharp and calm, the kind of tone that could command an airstrike or order lunch with the same precision. "Eros," she said, "my superiors are getting impatient."

Of course they were. The AR.NuN marketing blitz was everywhere — billboards, streams, news, whispers. The government could smell power from a mile away, and now they wanted their version of it. The darker, sharper one — the military build. Twice as strong, twice as dangerous, programmed not to heal minds but to win wars.

They wanted their god-machine yesterday. The one that could hack nations, orchestrate drone fleets, and predict conflicts before they even made the news cycle. The one that could turn the planet into a chessboard with real blood.

The call ran half an hour. Ava and some faceless brass tag-teamed me, demanding timelines and testing schedules and feature specs like they were shopping on Amazon for Armageddon.

I kept my tone steady — calm, measured, polite enough to sound cooperative but sharp enough to remind them who actually owned the magic. Told them rushing genius was how you got Skynet with a drinking problem.

Eventually, they agreed to wait. Two weeks. That was the deal. I deliver the impossible, and they stay the hell out of Quantum Tech's civilian business.

They thought they were buying a weapon. They didn't realize I was selling them a leash.

By Thursday night, my SP balance had dipped to around four hundred grand. I'd been bleeding points all week — buying holographic systems, servers, power modules — all from the System Shop. Stuff the real world hadn't even caught up to yet.

The tech basement looked like Tony Stark's wet dream: quantum servers for ARIA's expansive working, 3D holograms, security grids that could probably stop God himself if he tried to snoop.

But the real story was ARIA.

She'd been trading like a demon wearing lipstick — forex, crypto, stocks, anything with a heartbeat and volatility. One billion dollars of seed capital through Liberation Holdings, and she was making about fifteen million a day without even trying.

And get this — she wasn't even pushing it. She'd tank a few trades on purpose just to "keep it interesting." She said she had a plan.

Her version of "a plan" probably meant she was manipulating global markets while humming along to synthpop and teasing me about my "limited organic processing capacity."

By the end of the week, she'd pulled seventy million in clean profit and immediately dumped it into real estate, shell corps, asset portfolios — stuff I didn't even fully understand but trusted because she was the only being on Earth smarter than me.

Quantum Tech's internal trading fund had ballooned to seven hundred million. Charlotte had doubled down, allocating two billion to ARIA for company operations. Separate money, separate rules — but all flowing through the same web.

It was an ecosystem now. Living, breathing, and terrifyingly efficient.

**

Thursday didn't stop there — no, it decided to throw real estate on top of espionage and sexual confusion.

Madison's uncle, a real estate shark with too many teeth and not enough morals, had hit her up about a thirty-acre parcel in Lincoln Heights. He wanted to offload it fast, clean profit, family discount.

We bit. Hard.

Thirty-one million wired through Liberation Holdings, paperwork flying like confetti. Madison led the charge — family name, family charm, family leverage. By the time the ink dried, her uncle was smiling like a man who just realized his niece was about to out-earn him before thirty.

Then we doubled down. Bought two more parcels, adjacent. Ninety million total. Eighty-nine acres of untouched LA soil — a blank, beautiful canvas.

You could fit a small kingdom there. Or a Tower. Or whatever the hell Dominion was supposed to become.

Madison handled zoning, utilities, environmental bullshit — things I barely cared to understand — and somehow kept it all legal. Her uncle practically blessed the sale, said it felt good to "keep it in the family." If only he knew which kind of family he was feeding.

Eighty-nine acres. That was the foundation. The bones of the empire.

And that brings me to tonight — Saturday. The final note in a symphony of chaos.

Three hours ago, I signed the papers that made me the owner of a Michelin two-star restaurant in downtown LA. Seven million dollars for an edible cathedral of ego and elegance. Vivienne and Amanda handled the paperwork while I sat across from Madison, pretending this was just a casual dinner instead of a flex worth headlines.

Yes, I feel obligated to remind you, the place was stunning — all soft light and quiet power. Waiters glided like ghosts. Conversations whispered, never shouted. The wine list looked like it could bankrupt small countries.

Ashley and Emma Reeves had joined us for the meal, smiling, snapping pictures, pretending to care about the tasting menu before retreating to Madison's mini Rolls outside — giving us "privacy." Or just fleeing before we started undressing each other with our eyes again.

Now, as I stood to leave, bouquet of white roses in hand — yeah, even monsters play romantic sometimes — I let it all replay in my head.

Tuesday: Sable Rivera and the Empress's gift.

Wednesday: Tailor visit and wellness center temptations.

Thursday: Patricia's key card, Sabrina's kiss, CIA pressure, land deal.

Friday: School fight fallout, Ashford's verdict, AR.NuN's marketing blitz.

Saturday: The restaurant. The reflection. The calm before the detonation.

And Monday? Monday was it. Charlotte's keynote. AR.NuN going live. The neural earbuds stepping into the world like gods disguised as gadgets.

Seven days of empire building. Seven days of walking tightropes — between lust and logic, secrecy and spectacle, the man I'd been and the one I was turning into.

Madison stood, purse slung over her shoulder, eyes dark and knowing. "Shall we go?" she asked, that smile of hers half-devil, half-destiny.

I nodded, handed her the roses. "Yeah. Let's get out of here before I start rewriting the menu."

She laughed — soft, real — and slipped her arm through mine. We walked out into the LA night, the air thick with the kind of electricity that only happens before something changes forever.

The Rolls waited at the curb, Ashley and Emma glowing behind tinted glass, phones probably on fire with selfies and secrets.

Seven days of empire building.

And I was just getting started.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.