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The servers were shadows in tailored black, five silent phantoms orbiting our table of thirty-two with the kind of lethal grace that only comes from serving people who can ruin your life with a phone call. Gloved hands, mirrored trays, no sound but the faint clink of crystal and the hush of thousand-dollar shoes on marble. Every time one passed, the air shifted—truffle, caviar, cold brine, money.

Jasmine lifted an oyster, mother-of-pearl flashing like wet moonlight under the chandeliers. She studied it the way civilians study grenades.

"This is real caviar."

"Ossetra," I said. "Caspian sturgeon. The good shit."

She tipped the shell back. The oyster slid between her lips whole. Her eyes slammed wide, lashes fluttering, throat working in a slow, obscene swallow. A bead of brine clung to her bottom lip before her tongue swept it away.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she breathed, voice already wrecked. "That's pornographic."

Madison leaned forward, ruby silk dress catching fire in the candlelight, smirking. "Wait till you meet the wagyu."

"There's wagyu?"

"A5 Kobe. They massaged the cows and played them classical music. You'll want to write them a thank-you note."

Jasmine's fingers tightened around the empty shell until her knuckles went white. "Peter." Her voice dropped, husky, dangerous. "What the hell do you actually do?"

"Later," I said. "Eat."

Tommy raised his flute; champagne raced upward in frantic golden chains. "This the expensive stuff?"

"Four hundred a bottle," Priya answered, already pouring another round like it was tap water. "We've got twelve."

Tommy inhaled half his glass and came up coughing, bubbles foaming over his fingers. "Twelve?!"

"It's a celebration," Priya said, smiling like a woman who'd never checked a price tag in her life. "Drink."

Jasmine took a spoonful of the next course—something involving gold leaf and sin—and the sound she made should have been illegal in public.

A low, rolling moan that started in her chest and spilled out husky and helpless. Her nipples, already visible through that black turtleneck, went visibly harder, straining against the knit like they were begging for attention.

"I need a minute," she rasped, eyes half-lidded. "I'm… processing."

"Good?" I asked.

"Good?" She laughed, breathless. "This is what they mean when they say 'eat the rich.' If this is what you people taste like, line me up."

The table cracked up, warm, filthy, delighted.

Every so often Linda's eyes found mine across the candles. She didn't say anything. She just smiled, small and wet and proud, tears shining like extra diamonds.

Third course: seared foie gras on brioche, fig compote, twenty-five-year balsamic reduced to syrup, flecks of edible gold drifting across the plate like fallen stars.

Lea stared at hers like it might bite back. "This is art. I can't—"

"Devour it," Madison ordered.

Kayla didn't wait. One bite and her eyes rolled white, a broken moan slipping free. "Is this even legal? This feels like it should come with a safe word."

"Technically banned in California," Charlotte said, licking balsamic from her thumb. "We're not in California tonight."

Then the wagyu arrived.

Four perfect ounces per plate, marbled so heavily it looked like Carrara come to life, seared just enough to kiss the fat awake. Truffle butter melted into the grooves; bone marrow glistened beside it like obscene custard.

The table went dead silent.

Not polite silence—church silence.

The first bite burst on my tongue, fat blooming, juice running down chins no one bothered with knives after that. We were animals.

Tommy made a sound somewhere between prayer and orgasm. "I'm never eating grocery-store meat again. You've ruined me, Peter. I hope you're happy."

"Ecstatic," I said.

Jasmine chewed slowly, eyes closed, throat working like she was swallowing communion. When she finally opened them they were black, pupils blown wide, fixed on me.

"Real talk," she said, voice velvet and smoke. "Whatever you're doing, legal, illegal, morally gray, I don't care. I'm ride or die. This is worth prison."

"It's legal," I said.

She sighed theatrically. "Disappointing. But I'll allow it."

The plates emptied bite by reverent bite. Champagne never stopped flowing; servers appeared like magic the instant a glass dipped below half. Bubbles raced, popped, tickled noses already flushed with alcohol and lust and disbelief.

No one wanted the night to end.

Neither did I.

The music shifted, smooth jazz giving way to something darker, sexier: low, prowling bass that crawled up through the floorboards and settled between everyone's legs. The lights dimmed a fraction more; candle flames looked suddenly predatory.

White wine disappeared. In its place: Château Margaux 2015, poured like blood into fresh glasses. The color was so deep it looked black until the chandelier hit it.

Lea held hers up to the light, wide-eyed. "I'm literally drinking someone's Harvard tuition."

Madison lifted her glass, ruby liquid catching fire. "To the emperor's unorthodox life choices."

"TO UNORTHODOX CHOICES!" thirty-two voices roared back, glasses clashing, laughter exploding.

The table was alive now, loud, overlapping, deliciously messy in the most expensive way possible.

Cheeks flushed crimson. Eyes glassy and bright. Tommy and Mia had given up pretending: they were full-on making out, her hand already under his jacket, his palm sliding up her thigh under the tablecloth like nobody was watching.

Everyone was watching. Nobody cared.

Emma and Sarah had commandeered a bottle of Don Julio 1942. Lime wedges littered the bread plates; salt rimmed their wrists instead of glasses.

Luna and Isabella were teaching Rebecca some kind of drinking game that involved counting in French. Their voices rose.

Jasmine leaned in until her lips almost brushed my ear. Heat rolled off her skin; champagne and vanilla and the unmistakable wet scent of her arousal flooded my senses.

"Okay," she whispered, voice husky, trembling just enough to betray her. "Real question. Who are these women, Peter? Investors? Silent partners? Because the harem bit is hilarious, but I need the actual story."

I turned my head so our mouths were an inch apart. "I already gave you the actual story."

Her breath hitched. "Peter—

"They're mine," I said quietly. "All of them. And I'm theirs. That's it."

She searched my face for the crack, the tell, the moment I'd laugh and admit it was a long con.

She didn't find it.

Her tongue slid across her lower lip, slow, deliberate leaving it glossy and swollen. "You are… terrifyingly committed to this bit."

"It's not a bit."

"Twenty women do not just—" She stopped. Swallowed. "That's not how biology works."

"It is when the man's worth it."

She barked a soft, incredulous laugh. Under the table her hand found my thigh, nails digging in hard enough to bruise. "Your ego is showing, sweetheart."

"My harem's at the table," I murmured. "Ego's allowed."

Her thighs clenched together so hard I felt the tremor travel up her arm. "Four months ago you'd have blushed scarlet saying something like that."

"Four months ago I was still figuring out who I was allowed to be."

Her eyes flicked over my face again, slower this time, like she was memorizing the new angles. "Yeah," she said softly. "You did figure it out, didn't you?" Her fingers slid between mine now, squeezing, pulse racing against my wrist. "You look… happy. Dangerous. Like you finally took up all the space you were always meant to."

She glanced around the table, women leaning into each other, touching, laughing, stealing bites from each other's plates, eyes keep drifting back to me like I was magnetic north.

"Whatever this is," she said, voice almost shy, "joke or cult or actual magic… they love you. I can see it. So I'm happy for you." A tiny, breathless laugh. "Even if it makes me feel like I'm losing my mind."

"You will eventually."

"We'll see about that."

Across the table Ms. Chen was mid-story, hands flying, making Linda and Margaret wheeze with laughter so hard tears carved mascara rivers down their cheeks.

Charlotte and Catherine had their heads together, corporate talk somehow filthy and fascinating through the wine haze. Sofia's cheek rested on Isabella's shoulder, both of them staring out at the city lights, fingers laced tight like they'd never let go.

Everyone was drunk enough to glow, not enough to fall.

Everyone was touching someone.

And every single one of them, at least once a minute, looked at me like I was the only reason the stars were out tonight.

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