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.
