The drive to Madisonâs mansion was different this time. Instead of sitting like some proper rich girl with perfect posture, she was practically glued to my side, her arms wrapped around my right arm while I drove with one hand like some kind of professional chauffeur.
"You know whatâs crazy?" Madison said, her head resting on my shoulder while I navigated through the wealthy part of town where every house looked like a fucking museum.
"Whatâs crazy?" I asked, feeling her warmth against me and thinking about how surreal this whole day had been.
"This," she said, squeezing my arm tighter. "Us just... talking about normal shit instead of your supernatural sex god destiny or my familyâs money drama."
She had a point, though. For the last twenty minutes, we werenât dealing with missions, secret powers, or political landmines. Just...
us.
Dumb couple arguments over pineapple on pizza, her theory that TikTok dances are just "Gen Z mating rituals," and our growing list of movies weâd never actually finish because weâd end up making out halfway through.
"It hits different when weâre just... us," I said, glancing down at her. "No system missions, no family pressure, no school drama. Just Peter and Madison figuring shit out."
"Exactly," she said, then got quiet for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"What do you actually want, Peter? Like, beyond all the supernatural stuff and making money for your family. What do YOU want?"
...Whoa.
The question caught me off guard because nobody had ever asked me that before. Not my family, not my teachers, not even myself really. It was always about survival, about getting through the next day or week or month.
"Honestly?" I said, taking my time with the answer. "I want to matter. I want to be someone who changes things instead of just... existing. And I want the people I care about to never have to worry about anything again."
Madison was quiet for so long I thought sheâd fallen asleep against my shoulder.
"Thatâs beautiful," she finally whispered. "And terrifying."
"What about you?" I asked. "What does Madison Torres want when nobodyâs watching?"
She sighed, and I could feel some of that rich girl armor cracking. "Thatâs complicated as fuck."
"Iâve got time."
"I canât say for sure yet," she started slowly, like she was testing each word before saying it. "But I definitely have to take care of the family business when the time comes. Not because anyoneâs forcing me to, but because..."
She trailed off, and I could feel her getting emotional.
"Because what?"
"Because this is our familyâs generational business, Peter. Weâve been in real estate for at least two hundred years. Like, two fucking centuries of Torres family members building this empire."
My brain started connecting dots that made my head spin. "Two hundred years? Madison, that meansâ"
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Every major building in this city, half the commercial real estate in California, most of the luxury developments on the West Coast. We built this place, literally."
The weight of what she was telling me hit like a freight train. I wasnât just dating some rich girlâI was dating the heiress to a real estate empire that basically owned California.
"Thereâs so much family drama you wouldnât believe," she continued, her voice getting thick with frustration. "Generational wealth brings out the absolute worst in people. My extended family is constantly scheming, fighting over who gets what when my parents retire or die. Cousins, aunts, unclesâtheyâre all circling like vultures."
"And youâre the heir," I said, finally understanding the pressure she carried.
"My parents never had a boy," she said, and I could hear years of gender bullshit in her voice. "So, itâs on me to carry forward two centuries of family legacy. Some of my relatives think a woman canât handle it. Others think Iâm too young, too spoiled, too... female."
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. "Fuck them."
She blinked. "What?"
"Fuck them! Madison, youâre the smartest person I know when it comes to reading people and situations. Youâve been managing social politics since you were probably five years old. Business is just social politics with money involved."
She laughed, but it sounded like she was fighting back tears. "Thatâs actually a really good way to put it."
"Plus," I added, "youâve got something none of those old-school family members have."
"Whatâs that?"
"You understand how the world actually works now. Social media, technology, what young people want. Theyâre still thinking like itâs 1950."
"God, youâre right," she said, sitting up slightly to look at me. "My dad still thinks websites are a fad."
"See? Youâre gonna revolutionize that whole industry."
Madison was quiet again, but this time it felt different. Hopeful instead of heavy.
"Thereâs more to me than just the spoiled princess thing," she said softly. "I know thatâs how everyone sees me, but I actually give a shit about things. I want to build affordable housing, not just luxury condos for rich assholes. I want to revitalize poor neighborhoods without gentrifying them out of existence."
The passion in her voice was something Iâd never heard before. This wasnât rich girl guiltâthis was genuine caring about making things better.
"I want to use our familyâs resources to actually help people instead of just making more money we donât need," she continued. "But I canât do any of that if my family thinks Iâm just some airhead who got lucky with genetics."
"Madison," I said, pulling into her driveway and parking in front of a house that literally looked like a palace, "will you let me support you? In whatever way you need?"
She turned to look at me with eyes that were bright with unshed tears. "You donât have to ask me that, Peter. You donât have to do anything."
"I want to," I said simply. "Whatever you need, whenever you need it. Iâm all in."
Instead of saying anything, Madison just nodded and buried her face against my shoulder. I could feel her crying quietly, and I realized this might be the first time anyone had ever offered to support her dreams instead of just expecting her to fulfill everyone elseâs expectations.
We sat there in her driveway for a few more minutes, holding each other while the engine ticked down from the drive. Through the massive windows of her house, I could see the housekeeper moving around, probably preparing for Madisonâs return.
"Ready to go inside, mi amor?" I asked softly.
"Yeah," she whispered against my shirt. "But I donât want this conversation to end."
"It doesnât have to end. Weâve got time to figure all this shit out."
The housekeeperâMaria, if I remembered right from one of Madisonâs casual name dropsâwas waiting in the foyer when we stepped in.
She looked about thirty, give or take, with sun-kissed skin, dark waves tied back in a lazy bun, and a fitted blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans that somehow made "casual housekeeper" look runway-ready. If you told me she modeled for some luxury cleaning brand on the side, Iâd believe you.
Hell, Iâd subscribe.
But there was something about her energy that stopped the ogling before it started. Calm. Solid. The kind of woman who could carry a screaming toddler in one arm and a casserole in the other without breaking a sweat or her smile.
"Señorita Madison," she said with a soft accent and a warm smile, her tone respectful but not stiff. "Welcome home."
Madison lit up. "Hi, Maria. Sorry weâre late. Peter, this is Maria. She basically raised me."
Maria gave me a look that landed somewhere between
curious
and
protective big sister who can see through your bullshit in five seconds flat.
Not hostileâjust
aware.
Like she could smell teenage drama before it even walked in the door.
"You must be Peter," she said, eyes locking with mine for just a second too long. Not flirtatious. More like...
evaluating.
"Iâve heard about you."
Hopefully not the bad things.