Chapter 978: The Maya (Hot Stepdaddy) Reunion

When I arrived at the Crown Jewel penthouse with Genevieve, I was surprised to find

Maya

there.

And by all gods—

those huge milkers.

Isabella’s daughter was well gifted. Generously. Absurdly. The kind of gifted that made you wonder if the universe had a surplus budget that year and decided to

allocate

all of it to one

five-foot-something

girl’s chest.

She was standing in the living room in a dress that had clearly been designed for a woman with a normal understanding of

proportions—not

whatever divine engineering had produced Maya

—and the fabric was losing the war.

Badly.

Every concept of coverage had been disregarded, not by choice but by physics. Her

milkers

simply did not care about the structural limitations of clothing.

The neckline plunged so low it was basically decorative; the creamy swell of her breasts pushed up and together, creating cleavage so deep it looked like it could swallow fingers whole.

Every breath she took made them rise and fall in

heavy, hypnotic waves

—the kind of movement that made rational thought short-circuit.

The fabric strained across the peaks, nipples faintly visible as hard little points pressing against the thin material.

They looked

almost cartoonish

in their perfection: full, heavy, impossibly perky despite their obscene size, round and firm and begging to be freed from the dress that was clearly suffering under the weight of them.

Her waist

cinched

in

tiny

before flaring into hips that the dress clung to like wet paint, but it was

those tits

—those massive, perfect, gravity-defying milkers—that dominated everything, making the room feel smaller just by existing.

I still couldn’t believe this was my

first-kiss

girl.

She’s just so...

otherworldly.

She looked at me.

Then at Genevieve. Then back at me.

I didn’t know how to explain the situation. And to be fair, there wasn’t a clean way to explain it.

Here I stood

—

in Isabella’s penthouse, which Isabella herself had asked me to bring Genevieve to so she could officially meet her

—with another sister I’d just acquired, standing next to my girlfriend’s daughter, also, my first kiss, do not dare forget that, who was staring at us both with the quiet, calculating awareness of someone who understood exactly what she was looking at.

Because Maya knew. She always knew. The quiet ones always did.

And speaking of quiet ones—let me remind you of something. Isabella and I were both painfully aware that

Maya had a thing for me.

Not the innocent kind or even the

schoolgirl-crush

kind.

The kind that ARIA—insane,

boundary-free,

surveillance-obsessed

ARIA

—had confirmed when she’d once played us a video. A video she’d secretly recorded. Of Maya. Masturbating. To a video she’d secretly recorded.

Of me and Isabella fucking in the kitchen.

Yeah.

The quieter they are, the crazier they are inside. That was a law of nature at this point.

It’s an invasion of ger privacy, yeah, do not

lecture

on ethics dude, but it was fuck to watch with Isabella.

And now she stood there—short, stacked,

bespectacled,

green eyes blinking behind those frames with an expression that was three parts awkwardness and one part something she was trying very hard to keep below the surface—fully aware that the woman beside me was not her mother.

That this was another one.

A new addition to whatever Peter Carter was building.

Genevieve, who apparently lacked every concept of reading between the lines, squealed.

"Oh my God, you’re

adorable~"

Maya blinked.

Genevieve was already closing the distance—arms out, face lit up like she’d just spotted a kitten in a shelter and wanted to suffocate that kitten in a hug.

And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Maya, with that short height, those

impossible proportions

, the glasses sitting slightly crooked on her nose, those big green eyes—she was the very existence of cuteness anyone would die to hug... me too I was good at holding back my

urges

to hold that cute little thing and

press those milkers

on my chest, well, given the height, they’d be pressed on my stomach.

Not much of a loss

really.

She is the kind of cute that made you want to protect her and corrupt her in equal measure. The kind that made grown men stupid and grown women maternal.

Maya stood frozen as Genevieve wrapped her in a hug—a full, enthusiastic,

stranger-danger

hug from a woman she’d never met, who was wearing clothes that clearly belonged to a man, and who smelled like sex and expensive Lamborghini leather.

Because of course, Gen insisted on putting on my coat even this morning. What can I say, she’s just that crazy.

Maya’s eyes found mine over Genevieve’s shoulder after tiptoeing. The look said, very clearly:

Why the fuck is a stranger hugging me?

I shrugged.

What else was I supposed to do?

Just then, Isabella appeared from the bedroom.

Fuck.

My women had changed so much in such a short time since the Divine Seed. The transformations had been gradual at first—subtle things I could almost convince myself I was imagining. But there was nothing subtle about Isabella anymore.

She was

borderline goddess

now. Not figuratively or as a compliment.

As a classification.

Her skin had become something impossible—

smooth and luminous

, like she’d been bathing in milk and virgin blood like some ancient

witch

who’d discovered the one beauty ritual that actually worked.

Her face had sharpened and softened simultaneously, every feature refined to a version of itself that shouldn’t exist outside of renaissance paintings or fever dreams.

But the most insane changes were the eyes and the hair.

Her eyes were a shade of purple now. Not a trick of the light. Not contacts. Deep, vivid,

unmistakable purple

—like amethyst set into a face that was already too beautiful to look at directly without consequences.

And her hair—her long black hair now carried

streaks of purple

woven through it, darkening at the roots and blooming richer toward the ends, like ink bleeding into something supernatural.

It fell past her shoulders in waves that caught the penthouse light and threw it back in shades that didn’t belong to the natural spectrum.

Right now she was dressed in a short skirt—black, tight, the kind of short that made you question whether it qualified as a skirt or a suggestion—and underneath her jacket was... the excuse of something.