Chapter 128: What Would Diddy Drive?

I sat leaned, letting the weight of it settle in.

The Vampire House.

The name alone carried a decade’s worth of rumors, childhood dares, and Halloween dares gone wrong. A property so avoided it was practically mythical—half urban legend, half abandoned luxury. The kind of place rich eccentrics bought and forgot about. Or, apparently, held in reserve until someone like me walked into the right office with the right combination of trauma, talent, and public perception.

"Utilities?" I asked, finally.

Charlotte, ever prepared, tapped her tablet. "Already active. Water, electricity, surveillance grid. You’ll have full access through the AI dashboard—"

The words had barely left her mouth before Madison leaned in, lips brushing my ear like she was whispering state secrets. "You realize this makes you the most eligible bachelor in Lincoln Heights, right? Rich, reclusive tech prodigy, haunted high-tech mansion..."

She trailed off, eyes sparkling with just enough wicked to fry a Catholic schoolgirl’s conscience.

I smirked. "All I need now is a tragic backstory and a vintage motorcycle."

"You already have the backstory," Charlotte cut in dryly, pocketing her phone with a snap that somehow sounded like an executive order. "Don’t go near motorcycles. You’re far too important."

’Translation: she’d clone me before she let me get flattened by a delivery truck.’

"Besides," she continued, shifting gears so seamlessly I could feel the gears turning behind her eyes, "the estate will also function as your brand. Think of it less as a lair and more as a controlled mythos."

’Jesus. She’s turning me into a franchise.’

"A private location. Remote. Expensive. Rumored to be haunted. Occupied by a genius with too many NDAs to name. That’s not just anonymity, Peter. That’s mystique."

"Great," I said, deadpan. "Next you’ll tell me I need a butler named Alfred."

Charlotte didn’t miss a beat. "Don’t tempt me. I already have a shortlist."

And just like that, my teenage fantasy of power, isolation, and casually sinning in silk sheets was now a business model with Charlotte Thompson as my brand manager and Madison as my gloriously corrupt moral compass.

All I had to do was not ruin it.

*

Walking back into Charlotte’s VIP suite was like stepping into a retail hurricane with a seven-figure wind chill.

Mom sat planted in one of those absurdly expensive chairs that looked like it had been carved from a single block of marble and dipped in gold, her eyes glued to a tablet flashing images of handbags that probably cost more than our entire rent—and then some.

She looked like someone who’d just been told gravity was optional and the laws of economics had been rewritten without her permission.

"This can’t be real," she muttered again, scrolling through designer items with the kind of wide-eyed disbelief usually reserved for lottery winners or people who’ve survived a category five hurricane.

Meanwhile, the twins had completely lost it. Emma was practically vibrating with excitement, holding up a dress that had to have a price tag larger than our car.

Sarah, on the other hand, was channeling a military strategist planning an invasion, methodically assembling what looked like a full-on capsule wardrobe, complete with color-coded spreadsheets in her head.

"Mom, look at this!" Emma squealed, brandishing her phone like it was a magic wand. "These shoes are only eight hundred dollars! That’s practically free money!"

’Only eight hundred dollars?’ The phrase echoed in my head, sour and surreal. ’Jesus Christ, my own sister just described eight hundred dollars as "cheap." Charlotte had officially vaporized any pretense of our family’s concept of money.’

Sarah, the strategist, nodded approvingly but was every bit as enthusiastic. "I’m building a capsule wardrobe for my college semesters," she announced with all the gravity of a CEO unveiling a new product line. "Quality pieces that’ll last and make the right impression when i join." Right, both of them were joining college soon.

Mom glanced at me like I was the only sane person left in the room, her face a blend of concern and disbelief. "Peter, sweetheart, I think your sisters have lost their minds. Emma just asked me if she could buy a purse that costs more than my monthly car payment."

’Welcome to rich people problems, Mom,’ I thought bitterly, ’where a handbag can cost more than rent and nobody bats an eye.’

Before I could respond, Charlotte appeared beside me like an executive storm, that signature CEO smile already playing at the edges of her mouth. "Speaking of cars," she said smoothly, "let’s find Linda the perfect ride. La Cherie’s luxury automotive section makes most dealerships look like glorified used-car lots."

She swiped through the tablet like a general planning a campaign. "So, what kind of car fits Linda Carter’s lifestyle?"

I scanned the lot like I was choosing a weapon, not a car. My brain flicked through specs like a dealer catalog on steroids—safety ratings, resale value, maintenance costs, how each model would flex in a hospital parking lot at midnight. This wasn’t just about buying Mom a car.

This was about sending a message.

"She needs something that whispers ’I’ve made it’—not ’rob me behind the Walgreens at 3AM.’"

"Mom’s an ICU nurse pulling vampire shifts," I said, strolling between glossy metal like I owned the dealership. "She needs something safe, reliable, and cushy enough to survive twelve-hour death marathons. But also... it has to remind her that the broke-ass days are done. Like, officially deceased."

Madison slinked up beside me, radiating that ’my-dad-owns-ski-resorts’ energy. "In rich-people language, we call that appropriate aspiration. You want to flex without looking like new money had a seizure."

Of course Madison had a term for it. She probably learned it between polo lessons and private therapy at ten.

"Your mom seems like someone who values quality over drama," Charlotte said, her fingers grazing a sleek black sedan like she was inspecting a lover. "She’s not here for attention—just premium everything."

"Exactly," I nodded, stopping in front of the Mercedes lineup like I was about to choose a favorite child. "She doesn’t need a car that shouts. She needs one that makes other successful people raise their eyebrows and go, ’Hmm. Respect.’"

Then I saw it. The GLE.

Deep metallic gray. All elegance, no ego. It looked like it could glide through snow, city traffic, or the apocalypse—and still be early for brunch. Understated, yes, but powerful enough to make every other nurse in that Mercy General lot stare like, "Damn. Someone got a raise."

Perfect. Luxury with zero "I’m compensating for something" vibes.

"The GLE," Madison said, catching the look in my eye. "Now that’s a boss move. That’s the car for women who became the power couple. Not the ones who married it."

Charlotte gave it a quiet nod. "All-wheel drive. Crash ratings are stellar. It’ll take care of her like she’s the CEO of her own life. Which, let’s be honest—she is."

I could see it—Mom dragging herself out of another soul-sucking shifts, walking across that dim, depressing lot... and there it is. Her car. A quiet middle finger to everything she’s survived. A four-wheeled reminder that she doesn’t have to beg the world for space anymore.

She deserves to feel like a fucking storm. Not a background extra in her own life.

"Plus," I smirked, "it’s got enough room for when she guilt-trips me into family road trips. But still sleek enough that I won’t die inside pulling up to a date."

Madison laughed. "Wow. So generous of you to consider your own ego. Considerate of your future torments?"

"Hey, legacy planning matters. If I’m building an empire, I can’t have Mom pulling up to award shows in a 2007 Civic that sounds like it’s summoning demons."

Because nothing kills the seductive, mysterious heir vibe like getting dropped off in a car held together by zip ties and prayer.

Charlotte was already looking the GLE on the tab like she was about to negotiate down the dealership’s soul. Probably planning a financing route that’d make it look like she bought a houseplant.

"This works," Charlotte said, crisp and certain. "It says, ’I’m successful,’ without begging for validation. Perfect for someone moving from working-class grit to actual comfort—without turning into a walking Louis Vuitton dupe."

She and Madison slipped into their design-girl talk—heated leather interiors, safety ratings, boring details I’d already calculated ten moves ago.

My brain, meanwhile? Already lapping them on the freeway.

Because this car? This was the prologue.

’Today it’s Mom’s Mercedes. Tomorrow, it’s my underground fleet at the Vampire House. One for every mood. Every mask. Every mission.’

The GLE? Family dinners, charity events, meetings where people pretend to be polite before they try to screw you over.

’Madison dates would need something flirtier. A drop-top for sunset drives ending in screams—hers, obviously. Leather seats and a sound system that moans louder than she does.’

Isabella types? Danger addicts. Women who want secrets, and maybe a little sin. They’ll need a blacked-out sedan with custom tint and no license plate. Something that whispers, "He might ghost you or bury you. You in?"

As for my new woman Janet? I did not know yet. But I had a plan.

The garage would be a gallery of desire, chaos, and strategy. The Lamborghini? For CEOs’ wives having their midlife crises and wanting it in high-def. The vintage motorcycle? For the art girls who crave bruises and poetry.

Every vehicle, a different version of me.

Every engine, a different fantasy.

’The executive who wants to be manhandled in a Range Rover after a boardroom battle. The influencer who needs a hypercar to match her followers. The senator’s wife who hasn’t climaxed since the Bush administration and needs to feel like she’s cheating on America itself.’

The proof that I wasn’t always like this. That once, I was just a broke kid counting quarters and dodging high school jocks who thought bullying was a personality trait.

’From cafeteria trash cans to custom garage floors. From praying for Wi-Fi to buying Wi-Fi companies. Not bad for someone with blood under his nails and dreams that eat cities.’

Honestly? That was hot as hell.