Chapter 163: For All the Wrong Reasons

"This was past extreme. This was..." She squinted like she was trying to remember the name of that actor who played Spider-Man for exactly one movie. "This was like you became someone else. Someone scary."

I didn’t have a good answer for that. How do you explain that yeah, you kind of

did

become someone else? That underneath the nerd exterior and SAT vocabulary, there’s always been a locked basement door labeled

’Open in Case of Bastard Emergencies’

?

"I’m still me," I said finally. "Just... a version of me that protects his family."

Emma sat up fully, wiping her face with her sleeve—because nothing says "emotional stability" like using your own shirt as a Kleenex.

"Mom know about the photos?"

"Not yet. Unless you told her."

"I didn’t. I couldn’t. It’s too..." She waved her hands like she was trying to shoo away the concept of parental disappointment, which in our house was basically its own sentient being.

"You’ll have to eventually. For the legal stuff." I knew a way to keep shit from mom but as long as Em didn’t wish to, I won’t intervene.

"I know." She glanced at Madison, realizing we had an audience. "Sorry. This is probably weird for you."

Madison shook her head. "Family stuff is never weird. It’s just... family."

Emma gave a tiny smile. "Thanks for being here. With him. He needs people who aren’t completely fucked up."

"Hate to break it to you," Madison said, matching her smile, "but I’m pretty fucked up too. Just with better funding."

Emma laughed—an actual, non-forced laugh. The first one I’d heard from her in weeks. Honestly, it was like watching a vegetarian casually flip through a cookbook titled

Fifty Shades of Barbecue

.

"Peter?" Emma said as we got up to leave. "Thank you. For what you did. Even if it was insane."

"Always," I said. "That’s what brothers do. We show up. We swing hard. We deal with the paperwork later."

Back in my room, Madison kicked off her shoes and sprawled on my bed like she owned it. Which, considering her net worth versus my net worth, she basically did—if I was a small country, she was the IMF.

"So," she said, staring at my ceiling, "that was intense."

"Welcome to the Carter family. We put the

fun

in dysfunctional. Mostly for tax purposes."

"Your sisters love you. Like, really love you. It’s kind of beautiful."

I sat next to her, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline was gone, replaced with the fact that I’d committed felony assault before lunch. Most people get a sandwich; I got a court date.

"They deserve better than this. Better than worrying about whether their brother’s going to prison."

Madison sat up uprightly, fixing me with those eyes that probably had their own maintenance team. "Okay, stop. You protected your sister from a predator. You did what any good brother would do."

"Most good brothers don’t hospitalize people."

"Most male cousins don’t have the balls." She moved closer, her hand warm on my face. "You’re not a monster, Peter. You’re a protector. There’s a difference."

"Is there? Because from where I’m sitting, it feels pretty fucking similar. Like... ’diet monster’—all the moral gray, half the calories."

She kissed me then, soft and sure, tasting like lip gloss and poor decision-making. When she pulled back, her expression was fierce.

"The monster would’ve enjoyed it. Did you enjoy it?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking, the primal rush of defending my territory, the dark joy of watching a predator realize

he

was the prey now.

"Yeah," I admitted. "I did."

Madison studied my face, and I waited for the disgust, the fear, the slow backing away toward the nearest exit. Instead, she smiled—like I’d just admitted I could play the piano blindfolded.

"Good. He deserved to suffer. And you deserved to be the one who made him suffer."

"That’s... a really fucked up thing to say."

"We’re really fucked up people." She shrugged, like she’d just stated the weather. "At least we match."

We stayed like that for a while—her looking like she’d stepped out of a Louis Vuitton ad, me looking like the

before

picture in one of those ’Glow-Up Challenge’ TikToks. The girl worth millions and the boy worth an assault charge, somehow making sense of each other.

"What happens now?" she asked eventually.

"Now? Now we wait. Sterling does his thing. The system does its thing. And we see who comes out on top."

"My money’s on you."

"Your money could buy the whole system."

"True." She grinned—rich girl confidence, the same kind you see on celebrities who think a tearful YouTube apology will fix a felony. "Good thing you’ve got access to it now."

"I’m not taking your money, Madison."

"Our money," she corrected. "What’s mine is yours. That’s how this works."

"We’ve been dating for like... a week?"

"So? When you know, you know." She sat up, straddling me like a cat that just claimed a sunbeam. "And I know you’re mine. The boy who defended his sister. The boy who made me feel things I didn’t know existed. The boy who’s probably gonna be famous for all the wrong reasons but still shows up for his family."

"You’re romanticizing felony assault."

"I’m romanticizing

you

." She leaned down, her hair curtaining us off from the world. "The assault was just foreplay."

"Jesus Christ, Madison."

"What? I’m just saying, watching you go feral for family was hot. Sue me."

"I think I’ve got enough legal problems."

She laughed—loud, unfiltered, like that time a drunk Britney Spears tried to order Taco Bell through a fashion week runway mic. It was the best sound I’d heard all day. Better than Sterling’s lawyerly confidence, just slightly better than Emma’s relieved laugh, better than the self-important system patting me on the head for "heroism."

"We’re gonna be okay," she said, and somehow I believed her. "All of us. Even if I have to buy the whole fucking city to make it happen."

"Can’t buy everything."

"Watch me."

And honestly? I would. I’d watch this girl take on the world with her daddy’s credit cards and her mama’s courtroom glare. I’d watch her tank a PR disaster like she was Lindsay Lohan in 2007—except with better stylists. I’d watch her stand by me through whatever hell came next.

I’d watch her prove that maybe, just maybe, I’d found something worth more than power, revenge, or justice.

I’d found someone who saw the monster, read its Yelp reviews, and decided to book a table anyway.

"Stay tonight?" I asked, even though I knew the answer.

"Like you could get rid of me."

Outside, life went on. Connor was probably editing his next viral video. Jack was probably wondering what the fuck happened to the natural order. Lea was probably plotting my demise in iambic pentameter—because of course she would.

But in here? In this room that smelled like teenage boy, expensive perfume, and a hint of moral corruption? Everything was perfect.

Tomorrow would bring lawyers, consequences, and whatever else the universe wanted to throw at me.

Tonight, I had a girl who understood that sometimes violence wasn’t just violence—it was love’s most primitive, unapologetic dialect.

And that was enough.