Turns out I didn't even need to pitch Charlotte on my sex mansion idea.
While I was busy turning Isabella into a blushing, breathless wreck over FaceTime and staking my claim on Janet like a Wall Street acquisition, Charlotte and Madison were apparently conducting a hostile takeover of their own.
'Because of course they were. Leave it to two apex predators in heels to coordinate logistics while I was busy getting spiritually exfoliated by supernatural coochie.
I had barely started explaining that I needed somewhere private to conduct my more sensitive operations—read: "avoid getting caught running blacksite AI experiments next to Mom's herb garden"—when Charlotte raised her hand with that boardroom Jedi-move that will probably one day silence an entire panel of Saudi oil execs after I turn her into a powerhouse.
"Already handled," she said, wearing that quiet-smug smile that only shows up when someone's made three moves you didn't see and just put your queen in check.
