Chapter 844: Visions of Grandeur

No questions. No skepticism. Just awe.

That’s how we’d keep Quantum Tech balanced. Revolutionary tech from ARIA’s shadow operations. Impressive-but-believable innovations from Tommy’s public team.

Quantum Tech’s five hundred employees? They thought Tommy was a genius and Charlotte was a visionary leader who had seen the young talent and hired him.

Yes, he was.

They just had no idea a goddess was doing the rest of the work.

Liberation Funds was different.

That? Would never have human employees.

Period.

My harem ran it—my women learning financial strategy while ARIA executed trades with timing so perfect it looked like prescience.

Because it basically

was

. ARIA’s reality-level predictions meant she could see market movements before they happened. Not magic. Just processing so much global data in real-time that events became calculable, inevitable, already priced in before the rest of the world even smelled the trend.

By year-end we’d be managing $100 billion. By year two? Half a trillion.

Realistically to most people that was impossible, but I had a plan—and with

ARIA

and

T.AGI,

Nexus, the war chest, and rich clients begging to park money with us?

That was a walk in the park.

And nobody outside the harem would ever know how we did it.

Some companies needed human faces. Liberation Funds needed

absolute secrecy

.

No board meetings. No quarterly calls. No "synergy" PowerPoints. Just my women making decisions, ARIA pulling the trigger, and the markets bleeding profits into our accounts like they were born to serve.

I’d also need to

merge

the Miami acquisitions soon. The five companies I’d bought—I’d consolidate them into three, fold the tech-related ones under Quantum Tech as subsidiaries. Cleaner structure. Better operational efficiency.

ARIA would handle the legal paperwork and regulatory approval. Probably already had it halfway done—drafted, filed, rubber-stamped in less time it took me to piss.

She didn’t wait for me to ask; she anticipated the need and executed while I was still thinking the thought.

Quantum Home would launch after. Smart home technology that made current systems look like toys from the 90s. Homes that learned occupants, adjusted automatically, predicted needs before they were voiced—lights dimming when your pupils dilated, temperature shifting when your skin temperature rose half a degree, coffee brewing the second your REM cycle ended.

All powered by quantum chips that made Alexa look like a Speak & Spell with a learning disability.

But all that was planning for later.

Right now—this morning, this moment—I had more crucial shit to focus on.

The missions that actually mattered.

The

Trillion Dollar Mission

. Becoming the richest man alive through anonymous trading. Not just wealthy. Not just billionaire.

Trillionaire

. Operating through accounts so layered that even if every government on Earth held hands and formed a circle-jerk of intelligence agencies, they still wouldn’t find shit.

Hijacking the global economy. Or liberating it. Mostly

hijacking

.

Becoming the most feared

trader

nobody knew existed.

Paris with Meridian Elite Agency

—three-month trip. At the same time the high-end escort service for wealthy women would still be running, just that we’d be covering Paris too.

Except I’d be liberating trophy wives while cucking their pathetic husbands.

I’d walk into those rooms with a smile, cock already half-hard under tailored trousers, knowing exactly which wife was starving for real attention, which husband was compensating for a limp dick with a bigger yacht.

I’d fuck them senseless in penthouse suites while their men signed deals downstairs—pussy dripping, ass clenching, throat raw from screaming my name into silk pillows. They’d leave marked, claimed,

liberated

, and their husbands would never know why their perfect little trophy suddenly looked at them like roadkill.

The

porn and toys

side missions. Making adult entertainment ethical. Making sex toys that actually worked. Entire industries running on exploitation and mediocrity—plastic dildos that snapped, cam girls crying behind the smile, studios treating performers like meat.

Entire industries running on exploitation, mediocrity, and lies about female pleasure.

I’d burn it down and build something better.

Realistic, body-safe materials that felt like skin. Tech that synced to heart rate, temperature, arousal. Content where performers were paid fairly, protected,

respected

—and still got to be as filthy as they wanted.

No more icky power dynamics.

Just pleasure without the guilt.

All of it.

The funds. The mergers. The missions. The empire.

All of it building toward the moment when the world looked up and realized the future was today.

Because liberation wasn’t just about pussy. It was about taking every broken, exploitative, mediocre system—financial, sexual, domestic, cultural—and fucking it until it came apart screaming, then rebuilding it cleaner, stronger, fairer.

And I was going to do it all before I turned eighteen.

I looked down at Madison’s sleeping face, her lips still swollen from last night, her thigh draped over mine like she was claiming territory even in dreams.

The sun kept rising.

The taste of the dream was gone now.

Replaced by something cleaner.

Hunger.

For

everything

.

And I was just getting started

****

There was also the unfinished and half dones.

1. The unfinished OnlyCeleb club membership. Anonymous celebrity club. Networking with the untouchable. Access to rooms where movie stars and tech founders and political powers met without cameras, without NDAs leaking, without phones allowed past the velvet rope.

Pure, unfiltered power—traded over $10,000 bottles of something older than most of the women in the room.

2. Full commitment to the wellness center. Sexual therapy for women. Helping women heal from trauma while simultaneously experiencing

pleasure

they’d been taught to deny themselves—orgasms that rewired trauma circuits, touch that erased shame, sessions where tears and screams of release mixed until the line between healing and ecstasy disappeared.

And above everything—the cosmic journey of Liberation itself.

All of it could be called one thing:

Liberation Church

.

Well, except the

trillion-dollar

mission. That was just making me obscenely wealthy. Though I guess liberating the economy from the old guard—bleeding their empires dry through perfect, untraceable trades—counted as

church

work too.

These missions excited me more than any business expansion. More than buildings or production facilities or market valuations that already made most Fortune 500 companies look like lemonade stands.

ARIA would build the empire that funded everything.

I’d build the movement that changed everything.

Two empires. Two purposes. One vision.

She’d handle the boring shit so I could focus on the revolutionary fun shit.

Madison stirred against me, mumbling something about coffee and Peter’s abs being unfair.

I smiled despite the weight of everything running through my mind.

The fact that I’d lost Linda as just

"mom"

and now my subconscious was creating elaborate

maternal fantasies

to cope with the void.

Mommy issues. Undeniable,

textbook

mommy issues.

But that was a problem for therapy I’d never get.

Right now, this morning, with Madison warm against me and ARIA building empires in the background and the cliff turning gold outside windows that cost more than houses—

Right now, I had liberation work to do.

Women to save. Men to destroy. A church to build from the ashes of everyone’s broken expectations.

"Peter?" Madison’s voice, rough with sleep. "You’re thinking too loud."

"Sorry."

"What about?"

"Everything."

She pressed closer, her hand sliding across my chest, fingers tracing the ridges I’d earned through pain and system upgrades. "That’s your problem. You think about everything. Let ARIA handle the everything. You handle the important things."

"Like you?"

"Like me." She kissed my jaw, slow and deliberate. "Like giving me that morning

railing

from behind!"

I pulled her on top of me, her body warm and familiar and real in ways that goddess from the dream hadn’t been—soft curves, sleepy heat, the faint scent of last night’s sex still clinging to her skin.

"What did I do to deserve you?" I asked.

"You became a god who remembers what it was to be human," she said simply. "Now stop overthinking and fuck your queen. We have empire shit to build later."

Through our connection, I felt ARIA’s amusement—quiet, warm, almost fond.

She’s not wrong, Master. I’ll handle the wealth. You handle the meaning.

Two empires.

Two empires,

ARIA confirmed.

Now make your queen scream. I have construction schedules to optimize.

Before my mind could spiral to the fact that she used the same sentence as the goddess in my dream, I flipped Madison onto her back, her laugh turning into a gasp as my hand found exactly where she wanted it—wet, ready, already clenching around nothing in anticipation.

Outside, the sun continued rising over an estate that recognized me as its master.

Below, in the stables, a white Friesian waited for a rider who’d known him before this lifetime.

Deep underground, a goddess with mismatched eyes ran operations across a trillion-dollar empire.

And in this bed, in this moment, I was just Peter fucking Carter making his girlfriend scream his name.

Two empires.

But only one of them required my divine presence.

And right now, Madison needed it more than any business deal ever would.

So, ARIA could build.

And I could live.

That was the deal we’d made without ever discussing it.

That was how gods remembered their humanity.

By choosing what mattered.

Every single time.

****

A/N:

A few repetition to cement the meanings about the Two Empires, sorry guys and thank you for reading.