Read Novel Full Chapter 1029: The Harem Bus
Chapter 1029: The Harem Bus
Margaret burst out laughing from the van window she’d already claimed. Patricia followed — a crack in her composure that split into a full laugh she tried and failed to hide behind her hand.
Celeste joined them with a bright, musical cackle that carried across the driveway.
Only after the laughter erupted did Emma realize she’d said that out loud — her thumb freezing mid-scroll, eyes going wide, mouth forming a small oh as the implications caught up with her.
"I am going to kill you, young girl," Mom said, but Emma was already running, phone still in hand, laughing as she sprinted toward the van with the zero-apology energy of a daughter who knew her mother wouldn’t actually kill her and was fully prepared to test that theory to its absolute limit.
Mom’s belly — round, visible now, carrying my child — bounced slightly as she took a step to chase Emma, then stopped, one hand on her stomach, the other pointing at the van with the specific maternal fury of a woman who was too pregnant to sprint but not too pregnant to remember.
"When I catch you, Emma Carter—"
"You won’t Ma!" Emma’s voice came from inside the van, already sealed behind tinted glass, already safe, already grinning.
Sarah sighed — deep, tired, the sigh with acknowledgment of the mature twin who’d been saying the same thing for years and had accepted that our family simply wasn’t listening — and stepped into the van. "I always tell them they spoil Emma way too much. But no one ever listens to me, do they?"
Nobody answered her. Which was, in itself, the answer.
The inside of the van was worse than the outside. Worse meaning better.
ARIA had taken the concept of ground transportation and decided it was personally offensive to her standards.
The interior opened up into a space that had no business existing inside something with wheels — wide, long, bathed in ambient light that pulsed softly along the floor in strips of cool white, guiding the eye down a central aisle flanked by seats that weren’t seats.
They were thrones.
Quilted white leather, diamond-stitched, with integrated armrests containing touch-screen controls for climate, lighting, massage, and entertainment.
Each seat had its own fold-out table — dark wood polished to a mirror finish — with crystal glassware already set and chilled water beading on bottles that belonged in a five-star hotel rather than a vehicle moving at highway speed.
The ceiling held a chandelier-style light installation — thousands of fiber-optic strands cascading from a recessed panel, each one shimmering independently, creating a canopy of soft, shifting light that made the cabin feel like the inside of a constellation.
A massive curved screen dominated the rear wall, currently displaying a live aerial feed of the route ahead so crisp it felt like a window into a better version of reality.
Dark wood trim along the walls and ceiling matched the tables, broken by panels of brushed chrome and tinted glass windows that dimmed or cleared at a touch.
Throw pillows in silver and charcoal sat in every seat.
The floor was heated. The air smelled like something between fresh linen and night-blooming jasmine — ARIA had clearly programmed the scent profile, because no vehicle in human history had ever smelled this good by accident.
A private section at the rear was curtained off — heavy velvet, charcoal, soundproofed — and behind it sat an actual bedroom with an actual queen-sized bed, sheets already turned down.
ARIA had apparently decided that if Peter Carter was going to travel by road, Peter Carter was going to have the option of sleeping horizontally. Or fucking his harem if need be, horizontally.
ARIA was nothing if not thorough in her anticipation of my needs.
My women piled in and the sounds they made were worth every cent ARIA had spent.
Genevieve grabbed my arm and whispered, "I take back everything I said about the penthouse being impressive."
Margaret settled into her seat, pressed the massage button within four seconds of sitting down, and closed her eyes. "Okay," she said to no one in particular. "I forgive the bus."
Patricia chose the seat beside Margaret. Adjusted the lumbar. Tested the table and arranged her water glass at a precise angle. Satisfied. The woman could make any environment feel like it had been designed specifically for her simply by sitting in it correctly.
Charlotte took one look at the chandelier, then at me, then back at the chandelier. "This is obscene, Peter."
"Thank you."
"That wasn’t a compliment."
"I’m taking it as one."
Amanda had already opened her laptop on the fold-out table and was working before the van even moved.
She’d glanced at the interior for half a second, said "nice," and returned to Liberation Holdings’ overnight projected profits T.AGI had made for our trading. That girl was insane in her trading while on the other hand Amanda Wells did not have time for chandeliers.
Madison walked the length of the aisle, trailing her fingers along the quilted leather, examining the crystal glassware, testing the touch-screen controls with the critical eye of a queen inspecting her kingdom’s newest acquisition.
She said nothing. Which meant it was perfect and she’d die before admitting ARIA had been right about the van.
Lila found a seat near the middle close to Emma’s seat but not next and pulled her legs up beneath her, small and quiet, watching everyone else react with the wide-eyed wonder of a woman who was still learning that this was her life now.
Vanessa sat beside her — always near Lila, always gravitating toward the quiet ones — and the two of them shared a look that said can you believe this? without either of them speaking.
Luna found a seat, put on her headphones, and was asleep in under ninety seconds. Maria sat beside her — close, shoulder to shoulder — and watched her daughter sleep with an expression I recognized because I’d worn it myself standing outside Rory’s school three hours ago.
The van pulled out of the driveway. Silent. Smooth. Moving with a grace that made you forget it was the size of a small building.
My women. One goddess. One man who’d started the year as a bullied kid from Lincoln Heights who couldn’t afford to fix his bike chain.
Ghost Mansion. Then Paris.
Let’s go.