The laughter that erupted wasn't nervous. It wasn't fake. It was the kind of laughter that tastes like gasoline before the match hits. Joy, lust, anticipation—seven women already mine, already orbiting, already waiting for the finale.
And me? I wasn't just Peter Carter anymore. I was the ringmaster of the most dangerous, unholy, god-tier circus on Earth.
"Actually," Anya said, business brain clicking, "I want to start a bet on how many women he's going to add to our group while he's in Miami."
Without hesitation, I dove in first. "I'll bet ten hundred thousand dollars that I'm getting absolutely nobody."
Seven pairs of eyes froze like I'd just said I was switching to Android. Then—detonation. The whole call burst into laughter, the kind that makes neighbors bang on walls.
"You're betting against yourself?" Luna asked, scandalized like I'd just confessed to using 2014 hashtags in 2025.
"Free money!" Janet whooped. "I'm definitely taking that bet."
