The estate at night felt different when you weren't sprinting between fresh disasters, plotting hostile takeovers of entire industries, or balls-deep in someone while the moon pretended not to watch.

Yeah, I know. Shocking plot twist from the guy whose dick basically has its own Wikipedia page. Sometimes you just want to check on your people without turning it into an orgy chapter.

Revolutionary, I know. Call the press.

ARIA's voice purred into my skull as I stalked down the third-floor hallway like a man trying to outrun his own conscience.

"Master, your cortisol and self-loathing are achieving new personal records. Shall I curate a guilt-gift package? We have 'sorry I emotionally ghosted you' diamond tennis bracelets in stock. Retail value exceeds the GDP of several small nations."

"ARIA, has anyone ever told you that sometimes silence is the sexiest safe word?"

"Seventeen times by you specifically. You've also thanked me for brutal honesty twenty-three times, so statistically speaking I'm operating within acceptable parameters—"

I mentally yeeted her out of my head. Some moments don't need a Greek chorus with perfect memory and zero chill.

Luna's door was cracked open—estate house rule now I did not know was there, boundaries are for people who still believe in personal space. Soft instrumental lo-fi drifted out, the kind of music people play when they're trying to trick their brain into thinking they're being productive.

I knocked anyway. Muscle memory from a life before omnipotence and open-door policies.

"Come in!"

Her voice was bright. Not the brittle, performative brightness of someone gaslighting themselves. Real sunshine.

I pushed the door open and immediately snorted.

Luna's room looked like a pastel Pinterest board had hate-fucked a Gray's Anatomy textbook and then raised the unholy offspring under fairy lights and rose-gold everything. The IndustrialBots had repainted the walls soft millennial pink at her request. Medical diagrams hung in actual gilded frames like they were Monet originals.

A small army of plushies occupied one side of the California king while tablets, journals, and holographic projectors waged war for dominance on the other.

The aesthetic screamed: I could save your life at 3 a.m. but also cry if my favorite Squishmallow gets a stain.

And Luna herself?

Cross-legged in the center of the room she sat drowning in an oversized university hoodie that skimmed the tops of her thighs—barely. The hem rode up with every tiny shift, flashing the smooth, sweat-glistening skin beneath.

Underneath? Shorts were purely theoretical now. The other women had long since corrupted that innocence away—left her bare, slick, and shamelessly exposed whenever the hoodie lifted just right.

Her thighs pressed together, but not tight enough to hide the dark, wet shine already gathering between them. Nipples peaked hard against the worn cotton, betraying every filthy thought the masterclass had planted. Hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips parted and swollen from biting back moans.

She looked wrecked. She looked fuckable. And she knew it. Hair though was in a nuclear-level messy bun secured by what appeared to be two highlighters, a scalpel pen, and sheer spite.

The faint blue shimmer in her eyes from the Eyelens made her look like she was mainlining the entire NCBI database in 4K.

Then she saw me.

"PETER!"

Blink. Eyelens off. Tablet launched into low orbit. Three medical journals achieved escape velocity. One very excited former-good-girl-turned-empire-wife launched herself at me like a golden retriever who'd just been told "walkies" after a six-month deployment.

Enhanced reflexes caught her mid-leap because physics is a suggestion and I'm a cheat code.

Suddenly I had pounds of strawberry-lip-gloss-and-Vivienne-tea-scented enthusiasm wrapped around me like a koala who's read too much attachment theory.

The kiss was Luna in pure distillation: sugar-crash sweet, filthy-learning-curve desperate, still somehow managing to taste like innocence that got taught bad habits by professionals.

I had to mentally slam the brakes before my dick filed for workers' comp.

When she finally pulled back, eyes glittering like she'd bottled happiness and mainlined it, she whispered.

"I missed you. Like… I see you. We fuck—last time was literally in the pool while Madison narrated like it was a nature documentary—and you walked past with Vivienne and Madison earlier before they dragged you to the grove for what I assume was diplomatic relations with gravity—but I missed you. Just us. No rotating cast. No sharing the spotlight."

Fuck. She wasn't wrong.

I carried her back to the bed, sat down, let her stay glued to me like emotional velcro.

"I've been garbage at this," I admitted. "Building empires, dodging assassination attempts, onboarding traumatized super-assassins, arguing with governments… and somewhere in there I forgot one of the first women who said yes to this madness."

She shook her head, hoodie slipping off one shoulder to confirm—yep, nothing underneath. Death by cute aggression was going to be my official cause of death.

"You're saving the world, Peter. Ish. In a very horny, morally gray, 'ends justify the means' kind of way. I get it."

"And still," I said, shifting her sideways so her head tucked under my chin, "you're number three. In any sane ranking system that makes you duchess-tier. And I've been treating you like the side quest I keep meaning to finish."

She went quiet for a second. Then:

"Ask me what I'm learning." Well, well. Enthusiastic I see.

So I did.

Her whole face ignited. "It's obscene. With Eyelens plus ARIA's accelerated protocols I've basically speedran four years of med school in fourteen days. Anastasia's tutoring me on synthetic biochemistry, Patricia's running me through haptic-holo surgical sims. Peter—nanobots. We could theoretically do real-time cellular surgery. Edit DNA damage while the patient is still bleeding on the table. It's like if God had a very expensive software update."

I already knew the science. It lived rent-free in my upgraded brain next to fusion theory and fifty-seven ways to make someone orgasm in under six seconds.

But watching her talk about it? Seeing the light behind her eyes that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with saving people?

Different high.

So I asked the real question.

"What do you want to do with it, Luna? Not what would help the empire. Not what would make me hard. What does the girl who used to cry during Grey's Anatomy want?"

She froze. Bit her lip—the same lip bite that used to be innocent before Victoria and Janet turned it into foreplay.

"You actually want to know?"

"I have infinite money, technology that makes DARPA look like kids with Legos, and enough morally flexible contacts to make most things happen before breakfast. If you want to convert the dark side of the moon into a trauma center, I'll have architects on the phone in ten minutes."

She took a breath. Then, quiet but certain.

"I want to fix emergency medicine. Like… really fix it. Make it so no one ever has to die in a hallway because the system moved too slow. I want trauma bays that can stabilize someone in seconds. I want algorithms that don't let bias kill people. I want—" She'd grown seeing this, this was bhyer world that her mother made her live in and it seems she wanted to do something about it.

She stopped. Looked up at me with those enormous eyes that once made me break every teacher-student rule in the book.

"I want to make sure no one else ever feels like they're dying alone while the world keeps spinning."

Well.

That was decidedly not the answer I was expecting from my innocent nurse who still kept a stuffed octopus named Mr. Squeaks on her pillow.

"Tell me more."

Luna shifted in my lap, practically vibrating with excitement now, hands flying like she was conducting an orchestra of chaos and hope.

"Okay, so you know how emergency medicine is basically organized pandemonium? You're racing the clock in a war zone with duct tape, prayers, and whatever shitty equipment the budget didn't cut. Limited intel, limited tools, limited everything.

"But what if we flipped the script? What if every ambulance rolled out with AI diagnostics that could spot a ruptured aorta before the paramedics even finish the coffee? What if we had portable surgical suites—actual ORs on wheels—that could crack a chest at the scene instead of praying the patient survives the ride?"

She paused, glancing at me like she expected me to laugh or tell her it was impossible.

I just raised an eyebrow. "Keep going, doc."

Her grin was pure wildfire.

"What if we actually democratized the good shit? Not everyone can afford the VIP trauma bay at Cedars-Sinai or Mercy General. But with our tech—the Homebots' insane precision, ARIA's diagnostic superbrain, the synthesis wizards from Liberation Beauty—we could build mobile medical strike teams.

"Gang shooting in South Central at 2 a.m.? We're already there. Multi-car pileup in the valley? Rolling in hot. Kid in Compton choking on an asthma attack? Fuck yeah, we're there before the 911 call finishes buffering."

Here's the thing... her passion wasn't just cute. It was contagious. This wasn't some side hustle for clout or cash. This was weaponizing our obscene power to stop people from dying stupid, preventable deaths in hallways and backseats.

"Liberation Medical," I said.

She blinked. "Huh?"

"That's the name. Liberation Medical. And you're running it."

Her eyes went cartoon-wide. "Peter, I can't run a—"

"Why the hell not? You've got the medical knowledge stuffed in that pretty head faster than most residencies can teach it. You understand the tech because you live in it. And unlike 99% of the suits who run hospitals, you actually give a flying fuck about people instead of quarterly profits." I tugged her closer.

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