Chapter 225: Margret: Eros Rules the Night The suite had gone full war room mode. Charlotte vanished into her room with the focus of someone preparing to negotiate with me over the price of oxygen. Madison, meanwhile, turned our king-size bed into a battlefield of silk and sequins, three dresses laid out like weapons of mass distraction. "Which one screams ’mysterious European heiress’ without saying ’trying too hard’?" she asked, holding up a black silk number that probably cost more than a mid-tier Tesla. "Baby, all of them scream ’goddess.’ The real question is which one makes the other wives reconsider their prenups." I was already in full Eros mode—six-foot-three of supernatural perfection wrapped in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo that fit like it had been sewn directly onto my enhanced frame. The transformation had become so natural that shifting between Peter and Eros felt like changing clothes. Supernatural arrogance poured into a Tom Ford tux that fit like God Himself had measured me. The Eros mask was active—digitally scrambling me invisible to cameras and facial recognition. I was the kind of problem no billionaire security system could patch. Madison slipped into the black silk, adding her system veil—suddenly European royalty en route to a funeral. Elegant. Mysterious. Untouchable. The perfect disguise for a queen about to help me hunt Miami’s neglected wives like we were casting for The Real Housewives of Trauma Recovery. "Charlotte," I called, tightening my cufflinks. "Ready to introduce your business partner to some new clients?" Her voice floated back, muffled but sharp. "I’m ready to watch you work. Consider this my field trip in seduction economics." * The Maybach slid through Miami Beach like we’d bought naming rights to the city. The Setai rose in front of us, all glass and steel flexing like it was auditioning for a Kanye West Instagram post. Valets moved like ballerinas who happened to juggle Lamborghinis for tips. Our Maybach joined the lineup of Ferraris, Rolls-Royces, and other overpriced toys, each parked like trophies in a competition to see who could scream "divorce settlement" the loudest. "Jesus Christ," Charlotte muttered, staring out the tinted windows. "I forgot how over-the-top Miami wealth gets." "This?" Madison smirked under her veil. "This is foreplay. Wait until you see the actual party." The elevator ride to the rooftop was pure mythology—smooth, silent, glass walls turning the Miami skyline into a glowing circuit board beneath us. Olympus for the vain. Heaven for the insecure. When the doors slid open, I understood why Amanda chose this venue for her engagement party. The rooftop glowed like a movie set designed by someone who thought subtlety was a disease. Crystal chandeliers dangling in open air. Champagne towers glimmering under moonlight. Women draped in couture like living art pieces. Men dressed in suits they clearly didn’t deserve. And me? I wasn’t a guest. I was the main event. The Setai rooftop wasn’t just a party—it was a feeding ground. Infinity pools mirrored the Miami skyline so perfectly it looked like we were floating above the city on a magic carpet woven from cocaine money. String lights and candles set the mood somewhere between romantic proposal and cult initiation. And the women... Jesus Christ. It wasn’t a guest list—it was a reunion special of Desperate Housewives: Miami Edition. Designer dresses clung to bodies that were ninety percent personal trainers, ten percent top-shelf plastic surgery, and zero percent satisfied. You could smell the hunger in the air. The kind of hunger that Pilates and green juice couldn’t fix. "ARIA," I thought, sending the ping through our link, "what’s the damage report tonight?" "Sixty-three guests. Forty-nine women, fourteen men. Average age: thirty-six. Estimated sexual satisfaction rate: eight percent. Master, you are in a banquet hall of starvation." This report... I could never get tired of it. Eight percent. Translation: forty-five women were currently trapped in marriages powered by AMEX and dead bedroom energy. It was like someone handed me a Vegas casino, but all the slot machines paid out orgasms. I hadn’t even stepped fully onto the terrace before the ripple effect started. Conversations stuttered. Women’s eyes caught me and didn’t let go, like my tux was broadcasting in 4K while their husbands were still stuck in dial-up—women’s eyes found me and stayed, their attention becoming so focused that their companions had to repeat themselves to regain focus. Men noticed too, but their reactions were hilariously primal: stiffening shoulders, subtle shifts closer to their wives, the kind of territorial flexing that said, Honey, don’t leave me for that guy, but with all the authority of a broken pool noodle. And then—like the party gods decided to speedrun my evening—the voice. "Charlotte!" Margaret Thompson glided through the crowd like she owned it—which, in a way, she did. Not with the garishness of new money, but with the easy, lethal confidence of someone who’d been born into the right name. Mid-forties, but with a body that made you question the concept of time itself. Face carved like marble—high cheekbones tapering to a jawline that could cut glass, not a line in sight that didn’t belong. Skin that glowed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the Miami heat and everything to do with the limitless wealth she embodied. Eyes dark and knowing, the kind that had spent decades assessing men like me and finding them wanting. She moved with the fluid grace of a predator, making the crowded parts of the room unconsciously part around her. She wore a white dress that fit her like a second skin. Clinging to her body—emphasizing every sharp contour. The neckline plunged just enough to reveal cleavage that was criminal—full, firm, the kind that made priests stammer and billionaires sweat. The fabric hugged her waist, nipped in at her ribs before flaring over hips that were somehow both elegant and power, hinting at the strength beneath. Her legs—long, toned muskles flexing with each stride beneath the fabric, thighs that promised to close around a man like a vise. She’d kept herself in shape the way Fortune 500 CEOs keep offshore accounts—consistent, meticulous, and a little bit illegal-looking. But her eyes—oh, fuck me—the eyes told the real story. Decades of command in boardrooms and charity galas, but behind them: a woman sexually starved so long she’d forgotten what hope tasted like. Until she saw me. The shift in her was instant. Margaret Thompson didn’t just look at me—she recognized me. Predators know predators. Except she wasn’t prey in that moment; she was the convert walking into church for the first time in years, staring at the altar like salvation just winked at her. "Mrs. Thompson," I said, voice dialed to that sweet spot between gentleman and let me rearrange your world tonight. I took her hand, kissed it slowly—an old-school move, sure, but effective as hell. Her pulse betrayed her, quickening under my lips. She gasped. Soft, subtle, the kind of sound women made when they accidentally locked eyes with their favorite boybander in 2009. "Please," she whispered, breath hitching in that delicious way, "call me Margaret. And you must be Charlotte’s... mysterious business partner." Business partner. If only she knew. "Eros Desiderion," I said, letting the name roll like I’d trademarked desire itself. "The pleasure is entirely mine." And right there—in the space of a single breath—I watched Margaret Thompson, Miami queen, PTA dominator, and charity-gala assassin, recalibrate her entire worldview around me. She’d spent decades around wealth, around power, around men who thought they mattered. But me? I wasn’t in her category. I wasn’t in her species.