Chapter 297: Bare Margaret I promise I didn’t intend for this shit to happen. This ridiculously absurd situation that made my newly perfected blood run both hot and cold like someone was fucking with my thermostat. The penthouse hallway stretched before me, morning light painting everything in that expensive gold that only Miami money could buy. I’d just returned from my transformation, expecting to find everyone still passed out. Instead— The words died in my throat like a stepped-on cricket. My enhanced senses—usually a razor-sharp instrument of control—betrayed me completely. Every drop of moisture on Margaret’s skin screamed at me. The curve of her hip, hollowed just above the towel, caught light like sculpted marble. Her breasts weren’t just modest; they were real, soft and unbound, the dark tips pebbled with cold in a way that sent a jolt straight south despite the tsunami of wrong wrong wrong crashing through my brain. Those silver stretch marks weren’t flaws; they were a topo map of motherhood, of Charlotte’s entire existence mapped onto her skin in ways my hyper-detailed vision couldn’t un-see. My blood did run hot and cold—a feverish flush crawling up my neck while ice crystals formed in my veins. My perfected metabolic control, the thing that let me bench-press a Buick and track flies in zero-G, flickered like a dying bulb. Thermostat sabotage indeed. "Peter!" Charlotte squeaked forgetting to call me Eros due to the shock, her face turning a shade crimson that matched the emergency exit signs. She moved instinctively, trying to shield her mother with her own body, a blur of silk pajamas and pure, undiluted mortification. "Mom! Oh my god! What are you doing?" Margaret didn’t move. She just stood there, frozen in the golden Miami light, one hand flying up not to cover her breasts, but to press against her lips, eyes wide with genuine shock that mirrored my own. "I... I forgot my robe," she stammered, the words muffled by her fingers. "The hook in the bathroom... it broke. I was just..." Her gaze darted from me to Charlotte to the floor, anywhere but my undoubtedly pole-axed expression. "I didn’t think anyone would be..." The apology hung in the air, thick and useless. My own voice finally returned, scraping my throat raw. "No! No, I’m sorry," I managed, the words coming out too fast, too loud. My hands, traitorous instruments of grace usually, hovered awkwardly at my sides. One instinctively started to raise, then snapped back down like it touched a live wire. Don’t point. Do not fucking point. "This is... entirely my fault." Smooth, Peter. Real smooth. I took a hasty step back, ramming my shoulder hard against the framed black-and-white photograph of a Miami skyline – clatter! – the glass rattling in its frame. The sound jolted Margaret into motion. She finally moved, crossing her arms tightly over her chest where her daughter’s hands were, the action pressing her breasts together, creating a soft, accidental cleavage that my enhanced vision insisted on cataloging before I could forcibly wrench my gaze up to the ceiling. Stare at the smoke detector. Just the smoke detector. Think about fire safety. Charlotte was simultaneously trying to herd her mother back towards the bathroom door and shooting me looks that could curdle milk. "Go! Go put something on!" she hissed at Margaret, her voice a frantic whisper. "Peter, turn around! For the love of God, turn around!" I spun around so fast my balance, usually flawless, wobbled. I ended up facing the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Biscayne Bay, the turquoise water a soothing, safe blue. Behind me, I heard the frantic rustle of fabric in their bedroom, the soft thump of a hastily discarded towel hitting the marble floor, followed by the quick, padded sounds of retreating feet in bare feet. Then a door clicked shut – hard. Silence. The sudden quiet was deafening after the explosive awkwardness. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, utterly human rhythm that felt alien after years of control. The blood hadn’t decided if it was hot or cold; it just felt thick, sluggish, pumping confusion through my veins. I slowly turned back around. The hallway was empty now, just the lingering scent of Margaret’s expensive, botanical shampoo and the faintest hint of clean skin. On the floor, near where Margaret had stood, lay a single, small, silver ring – a delicate shape. It must have fallen in her haste from her wet finger. The image of her was branded behind my eyes: the startled vulnerability in her wide eyes, the unexpected, sculpted lines of her body framed by nothing but that towel slung low, the map of motherhood etched in silver on her skin. It wasn’t desire, not really. It was the sheer, overwhelming humanity of it. The accidental, unguarded moment of a powerful woman exposed, flustered, real. My perfection, my control, my blood – all of it felt useless, absurd in the face of such raw, unintentional intimacy. I walked stiffly to the bedroom door, my steps heavy. Outside, Miami gleamed, indifferent. Inside my own penthouse, I felt like a teenager who’d just walked in on his best friend’s mom changing. I picked up the fallen silver earring, its cool metal a tiny anchor in the lingering storm of my own ridiculous, overheated, and utterly absurd reaction. The thermostat in my veins was finally stabilizing, but the memory of that unexpected, bare skin in the morning light? That was going to take a hell of a lot longer to cool down. Well. I hadn’t expected someone who’d been flirting like she was auditioning for Real Housewives at the engagement party to be this shy when caught. But the memory of Margaret – all bare skin and bashful panic after spending last night practically crawling all over me like ivy on a brick wall – was still fucking with my head. Shy? Now? After playing footsie under the table like a horny teenager? The contradiction was enough to give even my enhanced senses whiplash. Talk about false advertising. But that image... goddamn. It wasn’t just nudity; it was a masterclass in accidental vulnerability. The way water clung to the elegant curve of her spine like liquid diamonds, the unexpected gravity-defying perk of breasts that had literally fed Charlotte... yeah, museum exhibit was the only term that fit. One I hadn’t bought a ticket for. Weird flex, walking around your daughter’s almost lover’s penthouse half-naked like that. This wasn’t Cap d’Agde; this was high-stakes real estate with other people breathing the same overpriced air. At least Tuesday morning wasn’t boring. No caption, definitely not the topless wake-up call I’d penciled into my penthouse itinerary. Another benefit of this whole enhanced existence? Sleep was basically optional now. Base Peter Carter could run on fumes and spite, and this upgraded model barely registered the all-nighters as a light jog. But even gods need grounding after an eyeful of maternal beauty that could make Freud choke on his cigar.