Chapter 719: Hot Lingeries Since that moment in the car—since she’d called him Master and then immediately had a complete meltdown about what that meant—Ashley had done everything possible to avoid him. Played the perfect role of Madison’s loyal friend who definitely didn’t have deeply complicated feelings about her friend’s boyfriend. Smiled and laughed and acted totally normal while pretending that Rolls-Royce-confession had never fucking happened. Peter hadn’t pushed. Had respected the boundary she’d drawn when she’d texted asking for time to process. Had acted like the whole thing was forgotten, like they could go back to being friendly acquaintances who occasionally made small talk at group events. But he sure as fuck hadn’t been sitting around doing nothing. No. He’d been planning. Carefully. Meticulously. Building the perfect trap in the perfect location for the perfect moment to end this bullshit silence and show Ashley exactly what happened when you stopped running from truths that terrified you. Soon. The plan was happening soon. But first—Helena. Peter hit his bedroom and went straight for the closet. He needed to transform. Needed to look like Eros. He pulled on dark jeans, a black button-down tailored so perfectly, added the Patek Philippe that whispered "generational wealth" without saying a fucking word. Checked the mirror. Keys. His Quantum Watch was on, he got a phone too. The AMG One was waiting in the garage—millions of fuck you on wheels. Peter headed back. Linda looked up from organizing canned goods like they’d personally offended her, smiled that mom smile that still managed to hit him right in the chest despite everything. "Heading out, baby?" "Business meeting." Not technically a lie. "Won’t take long." "Drive safe." She crossed over, reached up to fix his collar in that automatic mom gesture. "And eat something since you’re bailing on my meals." He smiled despite still being half-hard and frustrated. "Sorry, and I will, Mom." She kissed his forehead—quick, innocent, completely unaware that five minutes ago he’d been imagining bending her over the counter. "Love you, my Love." that came out without minding Jasmine. "Love you more my Empress." **** The garage door closed with a low, mechanical rumble, sealing the world outside. The AMG One came alive with a sound that made thinking impossible and adrenaline mandatory—a feral, turbulent roar, engine snarling, vibrating through the chassis, Peter’s bones, his soul. Peter pulled out, felt the car respond to his hands like it could read his fucking mind, tires gripping asphalt, acceleration a visceral punch, G-forces pinning him back. Celestial Grand was thirty minutes away. Helena had been cooling her heels for hours, pacing, fuming, her empire in ruins. By the time he got there, she’d be ready to negotiate. And Peter was exceptional at negotiations that involved beauties alone with her in a presidential suite. Especially the kind where the other person thought they had cards to play but had actually been checkmated three moves ago and just didn’t know it yet, their defeat inevitable, his victory sealed. LA scrolled past in afternoon gold—polluted and beautiful and perfect in all its contradictions, sunlight glinting off glass towers, smog haze, palm trees swaying, traffic a chaotic symphony. Beautiful. He grinned as the hotel appeared ahead—all glass and marble and the kind of place where rich people went to feel important while pretending they weren’t just as fucked up as everyone else, facade gleaming, valets in crisp uniforms. He shifted into his Eros disguise. The AMG One pulled up to valet. The attendant’s jaw literally dropped, eyes wide, staring at the hypercar, its carbon fiber curves, glowing taillights. First—Helena. Then Ashley. Then Ms. Chen’s answer tomorrow. Then whatever fresh disaster came next. Being a teenage god was fucking exhausting. But someone had to do it, right? Peter handed his keys to the star-struck valet and was halfway to the lobby doors when his watch vibrated, a sharp buzz against his wrist. Not a text. A video call. From Priya’s number. He stopped, thumb hovering over the accept button, heart kicking. Priya never called. She texted in carefully constructed sentences that took her five minutes to compose because she’s a perfectionist beautiful lawyer she wanted everything perfect, precise, poetic. A video call meant something was happening, urgent, unplanned. He accepted. The hologram screen pulled up and instantly filled with three faces—Patricia, Priya, and Janet—all crowded together like they were staging an intervention. Except interventions didn’t usually feature black lace, red silk, and the kind of lingerie that made his dick forget it had been frustrated two minutes ago, cock twitching, blood rushing south. "Oh fuck, me!" He breathed, voice low, stunned. "Hello, darling," Patricia purred, and even through the phone her voice carried that CEO-motherly authority mixed with bedroom promise, sultry, commanding, a shiver down his spine. She was wearing something black and barely there, all strategic lace and revealed skin, cleavage spilling, nipples faintly visible through sheer fabric, thighs framed in garters. Priya leaned into frame next to her, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders, wearing red that contrasted beautifully against her brown skin, silk clinging, curves accentuated, a teasing glimpse of hip. "We’re waiting for you." Her accent made the words sound like poetry and sin combined, husky, inviting. Janet appeared on Patricia’s other side, blonde and devastating in white lace that should have looked innocent and absolutely didn’t, sheer panels, thong visible, breasts straining. "You’ve been neglecting us, Peter, for days. That’s not very nice." Her grin wicked, eyes sparkling trouble. "I—" He stopped. Started again. Tried to remember how words worked, mouth dry, cock hardening. "I have a meeting with Helena." "Helena can wait." Patricia’s smile was predatory, eyes gleaming. "We can’t." "You’re calling me right now?" Peter glanced around the valet area, grateful nobody was close enough to see his phone screen, the erotic tableau. "In lingerie? At—" he checked the time "—three in the afternoon?" "Early enough that you can still make it," Janet said sweetly, voice sugar-coated venom. "If you leave now." "I have actual business—" He lied to hide his grin. "We are your business," Priya interrupted, and the firm tone in her voice made his cock immediately stand to attention, throbbing, straining. "You promised us time. You have not delivered. So we are delivering ourselves." Peter ran his free hand through his hair, frustration, arousal warring. "You’re serious." "Completely." Patricia adjusted her position and the movement made the lingerie shifting, lace riding up, a flash of bare skin, nipple peeking. "Penthouse 2. We’ll be waiting. Don’t make us wait too long, or we’ll start without you." "And you really don’t want to miss that," Janet added with a grin that was pure trouble, tongue darting over lips. The call ended. ** Peter stood there in the valet area of Celestial Grand Hotel, staring at his phone like it had just complicated his entire afternoon, screen dark, lingering image burned in. Which it had. These fucking sirens. They’d coordinated this. Patricia had probably masterminded it—she had that strategic mind that made her dangerous in boardrooms and apparently also in seduction campaigns, a chessmaster in lace. Priya and Janet had clearly been persuaded to participate, which meant Patricia had made a very compelling case about why ambushing him with a group video call in lingerie was a good idea, irresistible, calculated. And now they were waiting at Penthouse 2. In lingerie. Expecting him. "Master?" ARIA’s voice filled the car before he’d even gotten back in, smooth, amused. "Your vitals suggest the phone call was... distracting." "Three of my women just called me half-naked and told me to come fuck them," Peter said flatly, voice strained, cock aching. "Yeah. Distracting." "Helena has been waiting two days already. Another hour won’t kill her." "You’re encouraging this?" "I’m encouraging you to manage your priorities efficiently." ARIA’s tone was dry, analytical. "Helena is more like a business negotiation. Patricia, Priya, and Janet are relationship maintenance. One requires your strategic mind. The other requires your cock. Both are important, but only one has a time-sensitive lingerie component." Peter laughed despite himself, a sharp bark. "Did you just tell me to go fuck my girlfriends instead of handling business?" "I told you to allocate resources appropriately based on urgency and opportunity cost." "That’s corporate speak for ’go fuck your girlfriends.’" "Precisely." Peter stood there for another second, weighing options, Helena’s desperation vs. three women in lingerie. "You just passed my Wingman Test ARIA!" Helena had been waiting two days. She could wait another two hours. She wasn’t going anywhere—had nowhere to go, actually, since her entire life had been systematically dismantled and she was currently sitting in a hotel room with limited funds and even more limited options, trapped, checkmated. Patricia, Priya, and Janet were at Penthouse 2 in lingerie right fucking now. The math wasn’t complicated. "ARIA, text Helena. Tell her something came up. Reschedule. Same location." "Sent." Peter climbed into the elevator, Penthouse 2 was only a minute away. He made it in time. Because when three women called you over in lingerie early afternoon, you didn’t make them wait. You showed up ready to prove exactly why they’d called in the first place, cock hard, grin feral. Being a teenage god was exhausting with a lot of responsibilities. But some responsibilities were significantly more enjoyable than others. And this one came with lingerie. Helena could wait. His women couldn’t. Priority: established. His cock was already twitching from getting blue-balled by Ms. Chen!