Three Maybachs rolled up to La Cherie's VIP entrance like they owned the place. Military precision. The kind of arrival that made tourists whip out their phones and security guards reach for their radios.
The vehicles pulled up with choreographed efficiency. Doors opened in perfect synchronization, disgorging men in dark suits who moved like they'd rehearsed this dance a thousand times before.
Then she stepped out of the white Maybach.
Charlotte Thompson didn't walk—she emerged. Like her very presence had been waiting in the air, and the door just gave it permission to unfold.
Charlotte Thompson was stunning in that effortless, almost violent way that only came from winning the genetic lottery and having unlimited access to everything money could perfect. Blonde hair that caught California sunlight like spun gold, legs that went on for miles, and a face that belonged on currency. But there was steel underneath all that beauty—the kind of hardened edge that came from swimming with corporate sharks since birth.
From fifty feet away, Peter could see the cracks in her facade. Her movements were too careful, her smile too practiced, her eyes scanning the perimeter like she expected threats to materialize from thin air.
'That's not confidence,' Peter thought, adjusting his mask in the shadows. 'That's barely controlled panic wrapped in Armani.'
Her dress was Chanel, of course—custom, form-fitting, and blacker than envy. Silk clung to her like it knew exactly what it was doing, hugging curves sculpted by personal trainers and generational privilege. The slit along her thigh was indecent in the way only the ultra-rich could get away with—just high enough to catch breath, just low enough to avoid scandal. Barely.
Her heels? Six inches. Blood-red soles. She didn't wobble. Didn't hesitate. She moved like she'd invented balance. Each step was poetry with a switchblade tucked behind it.
Peter's gaze trailed upward.
Waist: cinched, deliberate. Sheer paneling on the sides hinted at skin—golden, unblemished, expensive in its upkeep. Her back was a long, uninterrupted line of temptation, exposed just enough to make a priest forget his vows.
Her chest was sculpted—high, soft, and supported without effort, the neckline teasing just above the edge of daring. The kind of cut that made men lose IQ points and women reassess their entire wardrobe.
Blonde hair framed her face in loose, beachy waves, the kind that screamed effortless but cost thousands in maintenance. It shimmered like spun gold, catching every sliver of light as if the sun had a personal investment in her glow.
And her face?
God.
Full lips painted a dark rose, cheekbones sharp enough to wound, and eyes like a locked vault—blue, cold, always scanning. But there was fire there too. Hunger. A furnace hidden under ice. She didn't make eye contact with strangers—she made calculations.
From the shadows, Peter could see her fully.
The way the fabric grazed her hips, the subtle arch of her back as she shifted weight from one heel to the other. The outline of her thighs through the dress, and the ghost-trace of lace underneath. The tension in her calves. The soft valley of her lower back. Her scent was barely carried on the wind—vanilla, clean skin, and danger wrapped in flowers with poison on their petals.
And even without touching her, Peter could tell—she was warm in all the right places. Soft where it mattered. Tense where she was afraid. And yet... somehow, everything about her body said control.
Sweet spots? Oh, he saw them.
But he also saw the barbed wire she kept wrapped around them.
Charlotte was the kind of woman you didn't conquer. You survived her.
Six security guards positioned themselves around her like a human fortress. Peter had done his homework on every one of them. The lead, Duncan, twenty-year veteran with dead eyes who'd perfected the art of making problems disappear. His partner Jake kept checking his watch—he had a date tonight with Sarah, the chief technology officer's secretary.
Classic workplace romance, terrible operational security.
Peter almost smiled. With his abilities, he could neutralize all six of them in under thirty seconds despite their special forces training. Look at them standing there all professional and alert, completely oblivious to the fact that they were basically mall security compared to what he'd become.
They were dealing with something born from cosmic desperation, and they had no idea.
The security team was moving toward the VIP entrance, creating a protective bubble that screamed important person with serious problems. Peter had maybe thirty seconds before they disappeared into the kind of exclusive area where approaching uninvited became a federal crime.
'Now or never, Carter.'
He stepped out of the shadows and prepared for the most dangerous conversation of his life.
"Excuse me," Peter called out, his voice carrying just enough authority to cut through the ambient noise.
The security guards pivoted toward him like synchronized death machines. Charlotte looked up from her phone with the kind of expression that said she dealt with bold idiots every day and had run out of patience years ago.
"Can we help you?" Duncan asked, his hand already drifting toward his concealed weapon.
"I need to speak with Ms. Thompson," Peter said. "About Quantum Tech."
Charlotte's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched and replied instead of letting Duncan go reply. "Do you now."
"Yes."
"And you are?"
"Someone who can solve your AI problem."
She blinked slowly, like a computer processing an error message. "Excuse me?"
"Your AI project. The one that's been hemorrhaging money for months. I can fix it."
Jake stepped forward, clearly wanting to end this before his Sunday got any weirder. "Ma'am, we should—"
"Hold on," Charlotte said, studying Peter like he was some fascinating new species of crazy. "You're telling me you can solve our technical problem? You? A masked, uh... teenager?"
"Age is irrelevant when you're dealing with revolutionary technology," Peter said, which sounded approximately ten times more pretentious out loud than it had in his head. Though honestly, it was also completely accurate.
"Revolutionary technology," she repeated, her tone flat enough to serve drinks on.
"Yes."
"So, just to get this straight... you came out to confront a CEO of one of the biggest Tech Companies, protected with your bullshit pitch expecting me to believe that you, a random kid in a mall executive parking lot, happen to possess such tech?"
"Correct. Can't be more accurate, yes."
Charlotte stared at him for a solid ten seconds. Then she started laughing. Not polite CEO laughter—actual, genuine, slightly hysterical laughter that echoed off the marble.
"Oh my God," she said, wiping her eyes. "This is my life now. Random teenagers in Halloween masks approaching me with miracle cures for my company's problems."
"It's not a Halloween mask it costs... Sigh" Peter said defensively, genuinely insulted. This mask had cost exactly twenty thousand dollars. Halloween mask. The audacity.
"Did you just sigh in words?"
"Yes."
"What is it then? The mask... I mean."
"Privacy protection."
"Privacy protection," she echoed. "For a teenager. Who apparently has access to revolutionary AI technology."
"Look, I know how this sounds—"
"Do you?" Charlotte interrupted, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Because from where I'm standing, this sounds like either an elaborate prank or the opening scene of a very weird kidnapping attempt."
'She thinks I'm completely insane,' Peter realized.
"I'm not trying to kidnap you," he said quickly.
"That's exactly what someone trying to kidnap me would say."
"Why would I kidnap you in broad daylight in front of six armed guards?"
"Maybe you're really bad at kidnapping?"
"Ms. Thompson," Peter said, trying to wrestle back control. "I understand this is unconventional—"
"Unconventional?" She was grinning now, and it wasn't entirely friendly. "Honey, unconventional is showing up to a board meeting in jeans. This is certifiably insane. But bold. I give you that. Stupidly bold."
"But you're still talking to me."
Charlotte paused. Something flickered behind those blue eyes. "That's... actually a good point. Why am I still talking to you?"
"Because you're desperate," Peter said bluntly.
The grin died instantly. "Excuse me?"
"You're right to be suspicious," Peter said, switching tactics. "But you posted seven hundred thousand dollars on IT Gens because you're out of conventional options. You're interviewing twenty random applicants tomorrow because your internal team has failed. Your stock price has dropped eighteen percent in three weeks."