Novel Full Chapter 943: Before Paris - Celeste’s Triumph
Chapter 943: Before Paris - Celeste’s Triumph
I knew one thing for sure. Celeste’s art auction tonight was the last major event I was handling before disappearing to Paris for three months.
And fuck, just thinking about Paris made my blood pump with anticipation—the kind that starts in your chest and ends up somewhere lower, throbbing near between your legs like a promise you know you’re going to keep.
The possibilities. The thighs—sorry, things—I was going to do there. Things I could accomplish.
Paris was going to be three months of breaking modeling records, dominating the fashion industry, and absolutely destroying European marriages like a one-man cultural exchange program focused exclusively on exporting American audacity.
The timing was perfect too. While I was supposedly in ICU recovering from the "shooting" as Peter Carter, I’d actually be in Paris as Eros, living my best life corrupting the French elite—turning their champagne-soaked soirées into personal conquests that would make the Eiffel Tower look limp by comparison.
At first, I’d planned on going alone or maybe bringing a few of my women. Honestly, I hadn’t even made a solid plan.
For all I knew, they could gang up on me and demand to come along anyway—harem democracy has a way of turning into benevolent dictatorship when the votes are cast in lingerie.
But that scenario was unlikely now. Some like Madison, Sarah, Sofia, Emma had school while other like Priya had work. Surely, they were rich enough to skip work, but I do not think they will. There was also another issue.
That issue was simple: three of my women were pregnant with my children, and there was no fucking way I was going halfway across the world without them—leaving them to navigate morning sickness and mood swings while I played conqueror in the City of Lights? Not a chance.
Yes, ARIA would be here monitoring everything. Yes, the estate had security that could withstand a small army or a particularly determined Jehovah’s Witness. Yes, they’d technically be safe.
But no.
I couldn’t leave them behind. Wouldn’t leave them behind. They were carrying pieces of me, and abandoning that felt like cutting off my own arm just to wave goodbye... I was just so obsessed with being near them. I just didn’t show it... first time fathers, right?
So, I’d informed Linda, Patricia, and Margaret that they were coming with me to Paris. And you know what they said?
They’d been waiting for me to dare suggest leaving them behind so they could plan my funeral next morning after murdering me in bed after fucking me dry—with matching caskets and a eulogy that started with "He died as he lived: stupidly."
That’s how you escape death, my friends. Have a harem of pregnant women who will absolutely murder you if you try to abandon them during their first trimesters just to go to Pris to get more ten women or twenty to add to them after cucking husbands.
Pro tip: hormones make excellent accomplices.
Linda, Patricia, and Margaret were confirmed for Paris. There were other candidates—Rory’s little face had lit up when I mentioned Paris, talking about the Eiffel Tower and Disney parks like they were the eighth and ninth wonders—but she had to resume school.
Venessa and I had said no right away them watched Rory pout as her two favorite people denied her her fantasy.
I was already in the process of transferring her to some elite school, somewhere that wouldn’t waste her obvious intelligence on finger-painting and recess.
She couldn’t miss three months of education, even if leaving her behind was going to hurt like hell—leaving my tiny chaos gremlin felt like ripping off a Band-Aid made of emotional superglue. But she’d been so happy when she knew she was living her school where kids teased her about not having a father.
Well, that was an episode of hours ago and I had done a lot of comforting.
Madison moved closer, elegant in a black dress that made every man in the gallery forget whatever art they’d been pretending to understand and start calculating divorce costs. She handed me a glass of wine, her fingers brushing mine deliberately, sending that familiar spark straight to where it mattered.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, her voice low enough that only I could hear over the ambient gallery noise.
I smiled, gesturing subtly at the controlled chaos around us. People moved through Celeste’s gallery like pilgrims in a temple, their polished appearances and hushed conversations creating that specific energy that came with wealthy people spending money on things they didn’t understand but knew they should appreciate to maintain their illusion of culture.
Celeste couldn’t be happier.
"Just watching her work," I said, nodding toward where Celeste stood explaining a massive abstract piece to a woman whose jewelry probably was five figures all together, and weighed about as much as a small child.
I wonder how she carried that much on her cute little head.
The pride and passion in Celeste’s expression as she talked about color theory and emotional resonance was beautiful to watch—like seeing fire dance without burning anything down.
"She’s doing incredible," I added. "Look at her. She’s sold how many pieces tonight?"
"Twelve, last I checked," Madison confirmed, her own pride evident, shining through like sunlight on polished steel. "And of course she’s this good. Celeste has been breathing art since she was born. She wouldn’t have her Miami gallery if she wasn’t exceptional."
The Miami gallery.
How could I forget that place? The scene of my first proper orgy, where I’d claimed all six of them—Celeste, Vivienne, Anastasia, Gabrielle, Ashby, Sophia—turning Miami’s elite women into my harem now, with my queen there too, a masterpiece of conquest that still made me smile when I thought about the sand in inconvenient places afterward.
Good fucking times. Where did I lose that fire, huh? But lately I felt like I am bringing it back to me. With ARIA handling business and tech, it was my time to shine, wasn’t it?