She stopped.

Looked at their utterly destroyed expressions.

Then exploded into laughter.

Not a giggle. A full, ringing, joyous meltdown that echoed off the glass windows. She pulled both Isabella and Luna into a hug, still laughing. "I'm joking. Your faces were priceless."

The whole table exhaled like they'd been underwater. Then chaos burst into relieved laughter.

"That mean, Ms. Carter," Luna wheezed pouting cutely.

"I'm a mother," Linda replied. "Cruel pranks are part of the user manual."

The introductions rolled on—Rebecca with her calm poise, Dominique and Catherine with their refined warmth, Patricia (which led to a moment of 'oh god, not you too?' followed by hugs), Reyna with her quiet grace. By the time the circle closed, Linda looked overwhelmed, glowing, and oddly proud.

Dinner unfolded in layered courses and soft candlelight. Wine loosened the tension. Conversations grew warmer, lighter, tangled with laughter. The city hummed beneath us like a giant waiting to be impressed.

Then Tommy stood up, glass in hand, grin stretching across his entire stupid face.

"Alright. Speech time. I've been practicing this for days."

The table went still, half of them bracing for poetic sincerity, the rest bracing for disaster.

"Peter Carter," Tommy began solemnly. "My best friend. My brother. The most ridiculous human being I've ever met."

He paused dramatically.

"Not too long ago, you got shoved in a trash can by Jack Morrison. You smelled like moldy cafeteria pizza for a week."

Groans. Chuckles.

"I sat next to you in Computer Science the whole time you smelled like a decomposing lasagna. And I still chose to be your friend. That is loyalty."

Laughter detonated across the table, rich and unrestrained, rolling into the candlelit air like confetti.

Tommy leaned into the moment like a man who had been waiting years to weaponize my childhood stupidity.

"When we were fifteen," he said, "you told me you had a system. Actual words: 'Tommy, I have a system.'"

The table perked up like a pack of gossiping ravens.

"I thought you meant a dating strategy. A flowchart, maybe. But no. Peter had engineered a full goddamn Pentagon-level romance algorithm. Color-coded notes. Probability calculations. A risk assessment matrix."

The old school crew—Lea, Kayla, Sofia, Sarah, Emma and Madison who'd witnessed that—were already dying.

"And he used this system," Tommy continued mercilessly, "to ask out Jessica. With a presentation."

Groans. Cackles. Someone choked on wine.

"You even had pie charts, Peter. Compatibility charts. For a fifteen-year-old girl who literally thought mitochondria were Italian desserts."

The table detonated.

I sipped my wine, the very image of a man accepting his fate. Internally, I was compiling new risk matrices. For murder.

"That's how desperate he was," Tommy went on, full of affectionate spite. "Trying to create systems because he had no idea what the hell he was doing. And now look at him—" He gestured at the twenty women assembled like I was unveiling a new product line."Turns out you just needed a better girl like Madison to fix you."

Sure, Tommy. Definitely just Madison. Not the cosmic glitch, divine intervention, emotional Stockholm syndrome, and pure dumb luck that actually built this empire.

"To Peter!" Tommy raised his glass high. "The man who convinced me systems work when mine failed spectacularly. The man who looked at the universe and said 'fuck your rules.' The man who somehow persuaded twenty incredible women to share space, time, and sanity with him."

His grin softened into something real. "You're my brother. And I'm proud of you. Happy birthday, you magnificent bastard."

The table erupted. "TO PETER!"

Madison rose next, and the air obeyed her.

"Let me clarify," she said. "Peter isn't just our boyfriend. He isn't just the man we love." She let the silence stretch until it hummed. "He is our emperor."

The word dropped like a crown hitting marble.

"Twenty women," Madison said. "Different pasts. Different worlds. And he wove us into a family. He gave us freedom, security, purpose. He built an empire and placed us as queens within it."

Then she smiled at me, soft as firelight. "Here's to our emperor. May your reign be long and gloriously chaotic."

"TO OUR EMPEROR!"

I stood, raised my glass, tried my best to look majestic instead of like a teenager who still couldn't grow a proper beard.

"I don't have Tommy's comedy or Madison's power," I said. "But I need you to know—every one of you is my everything. You made my life worth living. I'm grateful for you. All of you."

"TO FAMILY!"

Warmth spread through the room like a second round of candlelight.

From the corner, Reyna murmured, "Let's just hope he doesn't reuse the same speech next year—when there are another twenty three."

Laughter rippled.

"Twenty three?" Janet scoffed. "Try a hundred. He got twenty in two months."

Lea and Kayla traded looks that screamed mild panic and mild arousal.

"A hundred?" Kayla whispered.

Sofia shrugged. "Honestly… yeah."

Chaos resumed. Jokes, teasing, Ms. Chen making bets, Charlotte jotting something down like she was scheduling my downfall.

Madison leaned close, watching with the smug pride of a monarch surveying her capital. "Your empire."

"Our empire," I corrected.

She kissed my cheek. "Happy birthday, Peter. Welcome to seventeen."

Seventeen. And apparently one foot away from needing palace infrastructure.

Linda was laughing with Ms. Chen and Margaret, Tommy had Mia tucked into his side, my women glittered like constellations across the table, Lea and Kayla looked like wolves eyeing a kingdom they wanted in on.

And then the night shifted.

The dinner had settled into a warm, buzzing hum—laughter layered over conversation, wine flowing like liquid courage, candle smoke curling upward in soft spirals. I stood near the windows with Madison, the city glittering below like spilled jewels, her hand on my arm, thumb tracing slow arcs. Then:

tink tink tink

Linda tapped her fork against her glass, eyes bright with some secret she'd been hoarding.

"Before cake," she said, smiling like a cat with a hostage, "I have a gift for Peter. One I've been planning for weeks."

"Mom, you didn't have to—"

"Shh. Trust me. This one is special."

She drifted toward the elevator, pressed the call button, and waited with that mysterious, infuriatingly serene smile only mothers and Bond villains possess.

The elevator chimed.

The doors opened.

And my entire world jammed like a bad software update.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.