Chapter 158: Madison: My Ride or Die 2

Published Mar 14, 2026, 05:15 AM

Chapter 158: Madison: My Ride or Die 2 I let the memory of Trent’s screaming face fade, the blood, the chaos, the perfect satisfaction, and instead focused on the here and now. Madison, shaken and terrified, was safe. That was the only thing that mattered. And for the first time in hours, I could breathe a little easier. The cruiser hit a pothole and Madison jolted, clutching the seatbelt like the road itself had a vendetta. "God, this is so weird. I’ve never been in the back of a police car without champagne before." I stared at her. "You’ve... been in the back of a police car with champagne?" She shrugged, eyes darting to the tinted windows like she was watching her own public reputation crumble in real time. "Charity event. Don’t ask." ARIA chuckled in my ear, the digital equivalent of a smirk. "She’s rapidly losing coherence. Should I play calming whale noises?" ’Please don’t. I’m already in here with her.’ Madison laughed—too loud, too sharp—then immediately bit her lip. "Okay, fine, maybe I am having a tiny mental spiral. But you can’t blame me. You’re my—" She cut herself off, like the word was too dangerous to release in front of strangers, even strangers in uniform. "...favorite person. And you’re about to be fed into the legal meat grinder. So yeah, excuse me if I’m clinging to fictional happy endings." Something in her voice cracked, and for a second the sarcasm slipped. There it was—fear. Not the fear of scandal, or headlines, or whatever dinner-party gossip her family would choke down with their wine. This was raw, personal, hers. The officer in the driver’s seat coughed, either pretending not to listen or failing miserably. Madison just slumped against me, her perfume mixing with the faint scent of leather and stale air conditioning, and whispered so quietly only I could hear: "If they take you away for real... I don’t know who I’m supposed to be without you." I didn’t have an answer for that. And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong to be scared. I’d never even killed a spider before this. Hell, when Tommy and I used to fight as kids, I’d just stand there and take whatever he dished out like some kind of pacifist punching bag. But this? This primal surge from protecting my family with overwhelming, methodical violence? It felt like coming home to a rock concert I didn’t know I’d bought tickets to—and the opening act was me smashing everything in sight including my Vice Principal and my chances of getting into a good college. ’Gods I was looking forward to that shit... imagine me fucking all those hot professors and trust fund hot babes, or students from other countries.’ Heck, I could even land a teacher and a few of her students having them moaning at once. I know if I want I will get into. It is such a great opportunity I can not miss, right? What do you think? (A/N: Tell me what y’all think) Anyway today was irreversible and I would do the same again, just a bit more. The best part? Not even the violence itself. Watching Emma’s nightmare finally snap was like catching lightning in a jar. I could picture her right now—probably still shaking, probably still crying, but the kind of tears that smell like relief instead of terror. Trent would never touch her again. Never threaten her. Never make her feel small, trapped, or like the world’s weight was designed specifically to crush her. My expression hardened again as I replayed that motherfucker’s pathetic attempt at negotiation. Did Trent really think our little hallway deal was the end of the story? Sure, the temporary arrangement was airtight enough: he wouldn’t expose Emma’s drug possession, and I wouldn’t immediately release evidence of his systematic abuse of students. Damage control. Basic, professional, tidy. But if he thought I was just going to let him walk away after what he’d done to my sister—after all the other girls he’d probably used as human chew toys—I had to seriously question the wiring in his skull. That agreement wasn’t justice. It was like slapping a Band-Aid on a burning house. And justice? Justice was me holding the flamethrower. Trent Holloway embodied everything I despised about the world—predators in button-up shirts, armed with paperwork instead of teeth, who thought authority made them untouchable. Courts wouldn’t act? Fine. I’d drafted my own verdict: permanent, unsparing, total annihilation. Signed in invisible blood. Delivered with style. "Master," ARIA piped up, voice clipped and robotic, "your facial expressions are cycling through approximately seventeen levels of homicidal intent. Your girlfriend appears to be developing genuine fear of your psychological state." Good. She should understand the full horror movie that is my protective streak. "I’m not a hero, ARIA. Far from it. But when I see a rabid dog in a playground full of children, I put it down. Permanently. And stylishly, if the mood strikes." "And if the dog happens to have tried to maul your sister specifically?" "Then the execution becomes personal entertainment instead of civic duty—with popcorn." Madison was staring at me like she’d opened a book written in Sanskrit while blindfolded. "Peter... you’re scaring me a little. What are you thinking about?" I softened my expression—barely enough that my face still screamed don’t make me homicidal. "Just processing... everything. Big, messy, ridiculous everything." I should probably tell her to relax. Can she even remember that she did not have to worry, she can make one phone call from her dad, and most of these charges could disappear like morning fog, not that I needed that. But she’s too panicked to think strategically right now. Which is perfect, really—makes me feel extra omnipotent. It was actually kind of endearing, watching her worry about me like this. Madison, sitting there with the expression of a trust fund princess who just discovered tax forms exist, was completely out of her element. And it was cute. In that "oh, someone’s about to get absolutely roasted by reality, but I care anyway" kind of way. Definitely going to tease her about the movie marathon later. ARIA’s probably got every ridiculous facial expression logged somewhere. This is like watching a vegetarian read a cookbook on exotic carnivore cuisine. "Shall I prepare more PowerPoints additions to the previous ones for presentation of her film analysis for your entertainment?" ARIA asked, tone suspiciously like it was amused. "Make it a full Netflix special. Include her gasp when she realized she’s handcuffed. Slow-motion reenactments. Narration by Morgan Freeman. Go all out." "Consider it done I am changing the title too. Title: How to Cope with Felony Assault: A Cinematic Journey Through Denial," ARIA replied. I almost laughed. Almost. But the situation didn’t call for humor right now. Through the police car window, the Lincoln Heights PD came into view like a particularly aggressive flock of pigeons—news vans circling like they’d found a celebrity face-planting on red carpet carpet. And the conversation I’d been dreading: Mom. Linda Carter. Mom. Human Swiss army knife of guilt, moral authority, and that look that can strip your soul faster than TMZ at a celebrity breakdown. She could forgive the IRS, forgive a cheating billionaire, probably forgive a small meteor hitting downtown... but me? My sins were written in the nuclear option font. Yeah. Mom was scarier than any courtroom this side of reality. The legal system I could handle with my eyes closed. I knew exactly how to manipulate evidence, control narratives, and leverage information to my advantage—that’s precisely how I’d already reduced Trent Holloway to a quivering, folding mess like he was auditioning for a TikTok challenge called "How Fast Can You Panic When Exposed?’ when I’d calmly recited the specific charges he’d be facing, described the evidence I’d collected, painted him a detailed picture of how his life would implode when everything went public, he’d folded faster than Superman on laundry day. Mom? Different level. Mom could see through my chaos, and unlike the courts, she cared. Could swing either way. She might understand that I’d been protecting Emma, might see this as justified even if the methods were extreme. Or she might be devastated that her son had become the kind of person who solved problems with violence, that all her efforts to raise us right had somehow produced a monster. That might make her feel the full existential weight of parenting failure, which would make me want to hide in a dumpster with a latte. Linda Carter, who’d sacrificed everything to give us a good life, who’d walked away from millions to protect a child who wasn’t even biologically hers? Well... everything now depends on which way that pendulum swings. And right now, I’m betting the pendulum has commitment issues. The station came into view. Madison squeezed my hand as hard as the handcuffs would allow. "Whatever happens in there, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?" I looked at her—the girl who’d gone from yacht-to-palace trust fund to ride-or-die in like three weeks. She was willing to sit in a car with me handcuffed, knowing full well we’d both might end up in headlines with the "Teen Genius or Criminal Mastermind?" debate. Yeah. We’ll figure it out. Even if I have to burn down half the system just to get to the epilogue. The car stopped. My game face slid into place. Cameras flashed like paparazzi at a Kardashian sneeze. Time to see if I was as clever as I thought I was—or if I’d just become a cautionary tale for future generations of narcissistic geniuses. Let the real fun begin.

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