"Why what?"

"Why my mom?" She looked up, her eyes searching mine. "You could have anyone. Someone your age. Someone from this world of billions and penthouses. Why a high school teacher from Lincoln Heights?"

The real answers flashed through my mind: Because she was my teacher. Because I saw the loneliness in her that mirrored my own. Because I had the power to heal her afetr I fell in love with her, and in doing so, I healed a part of myself. Because I've wanted her since I was a boy in her classroom.

Instead, I gave her the purest, simplest truth I could. "Because she's real," I said, my voice thick with an emotion I didn't try to hide. "Because she doesn't care about the money. Because when I'm with her, I'm not the billionaire teenager. I'm just... me."

Maya's expression softened, the defensiveness melting away into something like wonder. "That's..." she breathed. "That's actually really sweet for a rich guy."

A wry smile touched my lips. "Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."

The tension in the room finally broke. The overwhelming facts were still there, but a bridge of understanding had been built, fragile but strong. The conversation wasn't over, but the first, most difficult hurdle had been cleared.

She laughed—a surprised, genuine sound. "Okay. Okay. This is still crazy, but... okay. If my mom trusts you, then I'll try to trust you too."

"That's all I ask."

"But I'm watching you," she added quickly. "If you hurt her—"

"You'll what? You're like five-two."

"I'm five-four!" she protested. "And height doesn't matter when you're protecting your mom."

I couldn't help but smile. "Fair enough."

She smiled back, and for a moment, I saw the girl from elementary school. The one who'd always found the good in people.

Then her expression shifted. Thoughtful. Studying my face.

Oh no.

The introduction carried on with a gentle, familial warmth until Isabella, drawn by the sound of our voices, emerged from the bedroom.

She hugged her daughter tightly, then formally introduced us, her voice laced with a happy sleepiness, even though Maya and I had already navigated our first, surreal conversation while she slept.

Later, as I lay there with Isabella curled against me, listening to her and Maya talk and laugh as they unpacked a few things, my mind drifted. The past, a door I had kept firmly shut, had been blown open by Maya's presence.

Did I say Madison was my first kiss? Then I lied. My first kiss belonged to a dusty cabin and a nine-year-old girl named Maya Rodriguez.

Who was Maya to me?

She was the sweetest soul in outside our neighborhood. She lived a bit farther out, which was why I knew so little about her life back then. But sometimes, she'd come to play, a quiet beacon of kindness in a world where I was often Jack's primary target.

While others were sympathetic, Maya was actively gentle.

The memory surfaced, vivid and unchanging: locked in that old forest cabin, a place that was practically a second home to me thanks to Jack's bullying.

That day, for the first time, Maya had also fallen prey to the girls who orbited Jack—his admirers and girlfriend, who were every bit as cruel as he was--save for Sofia. I found her there, terrified.

But for me, this was routine.

I calmed her down, promising we'd be found.

Thirty minutes in, we were chatting as if sitting in a dusty prison was the most normal thing in the world.

Then came the kiss. She'd stared at my face and declared, "Your lips are dry."

Before I could protest, she'd dipped her fingers into a nearby bucket of water—water I knew was disgustingly dirty from past incarcerations—and rubbed it on my lips. I was furious. A nine-year-old's righteous anger. I threw a tantrum, crying about the filth on my mouth while she looked down, apologizing, saying she only wanted to help.

As I sobbed, overwhelmed by the injustice of it all, she said softly, "Close your eyes. I'll clean it properly."

I did, trusting her. I heard the rustle of her movements, felt the soft press of her body against mine, oh yeah, her boobs were big even then, and then a sudden, warm softness enveloped my lips.

My eyes flew open, but it was gone. She looked away, shy and flustered. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't have anything else... and you looked cute crying."

'Cute.'

No one but my family had ever called me that. The anger vanished, replaced by a bewildered flutter in my chest. Overwhelmed, I leaned in and pecked her back saying we were even now. She returned it, and for a few fleeting seconds—probably less than five—we shared a real, clumsy, childhood kiss.

I had buried that memory, or perhaps pretended to, especially after Maya--she'd changed schools. For years, it lay dormant.

Now, as night approached deeper and I knew I had to head home, the irony was a physical weight.

My first kiss was her, with my woman's daughter. I ached to ask Maya about her life, to bridge the years gap. But we couldn't. Not now. She was, in every meaningful sense, my step-daughter. And I was Eros not Peter Carter.

A jolt, sharp and familiar, coursed through me—the Taboo Aura and Lust Presence, resonating with the profound, forbidden connection that now tied us together. The potential was there, humming beneath the surface of our casual conversation and laughter.

But I was caught by time.

The present demanded my departure. The past had been resurrected, but the future of that memory remained a locked door, for now. The king of taboo desires had met his match not in a queen, but in a ghost from a forgotten summer.

Before departing, I indulged a brief interlude with the penthouse concierge, securing the permanence of a dedicated car and its female chauffeur, held in constant readiness for Maya.

An unadorned necessity.

The notion of purchasing Maya a vehicle outright was a temptation that flickered, yes, but it was a boundary I dared not cross without Isabella's unequivocal blessing.

The architecture of family demanded certain walls remain inviolate; a gift of such magnitude for her daughter was territory Isabella alone could grant. My influence upon their lives was a current, strong and undeniable, yet it flowed within banks I did not myself carve.

As I pivoted towards the exit, my quantum watch pulsed against my wrist—a complex, subliminal thrum, devoid of crude sound.

Traditional telephony had long been relegated to the dustbin of obsolescence; this instrument offered a sanctuary of security and sophistication beyond compare. A mere flick of my wrist summoned the holographic interface, shimmering into existence before me, a pane of light hanging translucent in the air. The message it displayed was surgical in its brevity:

Sable Rivera: Make time for me.

No pleasantries. No preamble. A command masquerading, thinly, as an inquiry. The Empress had finally elected to play her hand, and her emissary was, as ever, blunt as a mallet.

A slow smile unfurled across my lips. If this was the game she desired, then I would set the board upon which it was played. My fingers moved through the holographic air, crafting a reply that carried, in its starkness, an authority that brooked no argument:

Me: Celestial Grand. 8 PM. Tuesday.

The response pulsed with unspoken dominion. This was no negotiation; it was a decree. The venue was my sovereign territory—the very hotel I was in the final stages of acquiring.

The hour was mine to dictate.

Let her come to me. Let her step across the threshold into my meticulously curated world.

So. The mature beauty sought the beast? She possessed not the slightest conception of the primal force her summons had unlocked. But enlightenment, swift and certain, awaited.

With a subtle gesture, I dismissed the hologram, the light dissolving back into the ambient air, leaving only the faintest whisper of ozone.

Tuesday promised a symphony of intrigue. I anticipated the overture.

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