Chapter 221: Divine Intervention With Tongue

A/N:

Guys I am sorry we made a mistake in update yesterday before we edited that Chapter

,

I have updated the Chapter we had to update yesterday.

***

The Maybach wasn’t a car—it was a temple of money disguised as transportation.

Charlotte’s jet, which cost more than half a town’s people’s lifetime earnings, suddenly felt like economy class with free peanuts and a crying baby in row 13.

The leather was obscene. Not "premium leather" like car commercials brag about—this shit was so soft it felt like I was being swallowed whole by a silk-skinned goddess. Every time I shifted, the seats massaged muscles I didn’t even know I owned. If this car had hands, it would’ve been on the registry.

Ambient lighting glowed like liquid starlight—violets, blues, soft pulses of neon that made it feel like we weren’t driving through Miami at all, but floating in some cosmic nightclub designed for billionaires and demons.

There was a minibar stocked with crystal glasses and bottles of liquor that probably had names in French I couldn’t pronounce but could guarantee cost more than my mom’s old Honda Civic.

"I am exhausted," Charlotte whispered, sinking into her seat like she’d just been swallowed by a money dragon.

"This," Madison said from behind her veil, voice regal and sharp, "is what your father built for you. A kingdom of luxuries most mortals can only dream about but needs saving."

I leaned back, letting the Maybach’s suspension erase the bumps of Miami’s streets until it felt like we were gliding above the city instead of rolling through it. Behind tinted glass that could hide a murder trial, Miami began to unfold for me—and holy fuck, it was alive.

Lincoln Heights looked like a nursing home in cosplay compared to this.

The highways were arteries of chrome and excess. Lambos, Ferraris, McLarens—all flexing their horsepower like peacocks on coke. Every car was jewelry that had come to life and decided to scream

Daddy never hugged me

. Every driver looked like someone you could either rob or seduce—probably both in the same night.

Palm trees lined the roads like smug sentinels of paradise, swaying in ocean breezes heavy with salt, lust, and the perfume of neglected housewives waiting for someone like me to ruin their yoga-toned lives.

The architecture was Miami’s love letter to sin. Old art deco mansions clung to their faded cocaine-era glory while modern glass towers stabbed upward like crystal erections pointed at heaven, worshipping the gods of excess and orgasms.

And then there were the women.

Jesus Christ, the women.

They were everywhere—jogging along South Beach in sports bras that left their souls (and everything else) exposed. Bodies carved by personal trainers, curves that screamed

look at me,

paired with eyes that whispered

touch me.

Boutique shoppers floated down sidewalks in dresses that cost more than a semester of college, their smiles sharp, their laughter hollow, every step radiating that particular hunger only wealth without fulfillment creates.

And by the pools? Forget it. Bikini-clad perfection draped over chaise lounges, sipping cocktails the color of sunset, their swimsuits cut so aggressively it was basically lingerie with better PR. Skin tanned, oiled, gleaming like they’d been crafted in laboratories to test my willpower—and losing.

This city wasn’t just alive—it was throbbing. Beating like a heart fueled by lust, greed, and opportunity.

And I was its perfect disease.

"ARIA," I thought through the neural link, that predatory edge already sharpening my tone. "What’s the sexual frustration level in this city?"

Her voice came like silk wrapped around steel, clinical but dripping devotion. "Miami contains the highest density of sexually neglected wealth in North America, Master. Upper-class divorce rate: sixty-seven percent. Average marital satisfaction: three-point-two out of ten. Forty-three percent of wives currently in active affairs. In other words—you’re standing in the middle of the most target-rich environment in the continental United States. These women are begging for liberation."

The numbers weren’t just statistics. They were music. They were hunger given shape. My instincts thrummed like a live wire. Miami wasn’t just a city—it was an

orgasm waiting for ignition.

First time here, and already I knew this wouldn’t be my last.

California had been a kingdom I was carving carefully, brick by brick, but Miami? Miami was a feeding frenzy. The energy was rawer, dirtier, hungrier. These people weren’t just rich—they were

starving.

Starving for the one thing money couldn’t buy: someone who could actually make their bodies believe in God again.

Why the fuck had I been limiting myself to one city?

I wasn’t some neighborhood Casanova. I was a global phenomenon waiting to happen.

Women everywhere were suffering from marriages turned mausoleums, lying awake in silk sheets wondering if they’d ever feel alive again. And here I was—the cure wrapped in muscle and mythology, finally stepping into their hunting grounds.

Lincoln Heights had been training wheels. Miami was a crucible.

And I wasn’t leaving without a souvenir.

The Maybach purred through the veins of the city, carrying me straight into temptation’s heart: an engagement party. Wealthy women gathering to toast someone else’s

second chance at love.

Translation:

a ballroom full of suppressed moans and restless eyes.

Even the bride was a candidate. Second marriage? That meant the first guy failed spectacularly. If the new fiancé wasn’t delivering salvation, then Eros himself was here to officiate.

Call it divine intervention, with tongue included.

"Eros," Madison said softly, veil casting her face in shadows but not hiding the gleam in her eyes. "You’ve got that look again—the one that says you’re planning to swallow an entire city whole."

"Just appreciating the local scenery," I said, watching a pack of Pilates-sculpted wives jog past like greyhounds in designer spandex. Perfect bodies, zero satisfaction. A contradiction begging for correction.

Charlotte, still innocent in all this, sighed like she was staring at paradise. "It’s beautiful. The colors, the wealth, the energy... I get why people love Miami."

"They love a lot of things here," I murmured, lips curling into a smile that made Madison’s pulse spike even through her disguise.

Because yeah—we were here on business. Save Margaret Thompson. Break some corporate necks. But a man can multitask.

And if that meant liberating a few starved souls along the way?

The Maybach kept floating, a black angel gliding toward the Fontainebleau, carrying me into my next sermon.

After the system awakened, I used to dream about it—crossing borders like a shadow priest, leaving behind a trail of satisfied women and conquered territories that whispered my name in languages I didn’t even speak. That was the fantasy. The gospel.

But I’d gotten sidetracked. Buried myself in local empire-building, juggling school bullshit, family protection, and the slow grind of power. Necessary, yeah. But small. Safe.

Now? Sitting in the belly of this Maybach, staring at Miami’s endless buffet of neglected wives and frustrated heiresses, I felt it—the old hunger roaring back like a reactor climbing toward meltdown.

This city was radioactive with opportunity, and I’d be a fucking idiot to walk away untouched.

We were on our way to an engagement party—a ballroom stocked with wealthy women pretending to toast someone else’s second chance at love. In reality? It was a powder keg of silk, diamonds, and unscreamed orgasms waiting for the right spark.

And sparks were exactly what I specialized in.

I wasn’t leaving Miami without a souvenir.

Daddy hadn’t just arrived.

Daddy had come to

preach.