Read Novel Full Chapter 872: Best Creation
Chapter 872: Best Creation
"Together," she echoed, the word sounding like relief.
"You’re not alone in this, Mom. Whatever happens, whatever mess comes next—you’ll never face it alone. I promise."
She nodded against my chest, and I felt the shift in the room like a physical thing: the suffocating heaviness that had pressed down since I walked through the door began to lift, replaced by something lighter. Warmer.
Something that tasted—impossibly—like the very beginning of joy.
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you... are you happy? About this?"
I pulled back just enough to cup her face in both hands, making sure she could see every bit of truth in my eyes.
"Happy?" I laughed—not bitter, not forced, but with genuine, startled wonder. "Mom, I’ve built an empire. I created ARIA—a literal goddess who can rewrite physics for fun. I’ve got more money than most countries, more power than should be legal, and a mansion that could probably host its own zip code. But this—"
I slid my hand back to her stomach, palm flat and reverent. "This is the most precious thing I’ve ever made. Nothing else can even ever come close."
Her eyes widened, fresh tears spilling over but not falling yet.
"Not ARIA. Not Liberation Holdings. Not the tech, the wealth, the women, any of it." My voice cracked—just a little—with emotion I couldn’t (and didn’t want to) hide. "A life, Mom. Our life. Growing inside you right now. Part of me and part of you, tangled together into something new and perfect and ours."
She was smiling through the tears now—small, real, radiant.
"You mean that?"
"I’ve never meant anything more."
And then—because the need hit me like a freight train, because I couldn’t not ask—I blurted:
"Can I feel the baby?"
Linda blinked. Then burst out laughing—bright, surprised, the sound bubbling up like she couldn’t help it. "Peter, the baby is maybe two days old. There’s literally nothing to feel yet. It’s barely the size of a poppy seed."
"I don’t care. I want to feel anyway."
"You won’t feel anything—"
"Please?" I gave her my most shameless, pleading look—the one that used to get me extra cookies when I was ten. "Please, Mom? Let me try?"
She stared at me for a long second.
Then laughed harder—her whole body shaking with it, tears of mirth mixing with the others. "Oh my God. You’re actually begging. The great Peter Carter—master of harem, builder of empires, literal god—is begging to touch a belly that won’t even show for months."
"Is it working?"
"It’s ridiculous."
"But is it working?"
She shook her head, still giggling, cheeks flushed. "You’re impossible. You know that?"
"I’ve been told. Frequently."
"Fine. Fine." She shifted, tugging the covers aside and pulling her oversized t-shirt up just enough. "But I’m warning you—there’s literally nothing—"
I didn’t wait for her to finish.
My hand trembled—trembled—as I reached for her.
Me. The man who’d built armies of drones and robots and rewritten reality. My fingers shook like I was touching something holy as they settled against the soft, warm skin of her stomach.
The first contact was electric.
Her skin was warm, smooth, familiar in some ways—I’d touched her here before, in passion, in intimacy—but completely new in others. This wasn’t just Linda’s body anymore. She was carrying our future.
Our legacy. Our child.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
My soul felt like it was trying to climb out through my throat.
"Peter?" Linda’s voice was soft, wondering. "Are you okay?"
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
There was nothing to feel. She was right. No bump. No flutter. No physical proof yet. Just smooth skin, warmth, and the steady thump of her heartbeat beneath my palm.
But I felt it anyway.
Not with my hand. With something deeper—something primal and ancient that words would never reach.
My child was in there.
Our child.
Growing. Becoming. Waiting to meet us.
Linda’s hand covered mine, pressing it more firmly against her stomach. Her fingers laced through mine, holding me there, sharing the impossible, sacred moment.
Neither of us spoke.
We didn’t need to.
The silence said everything—wonder, fear, hope, love—all braided together into something too big for language.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. Time dissolved when measured against something this heavy, this light.
Finally, I found my voice—rough, cracked, completely inadequate.
"Thank you."
Linda looked at me. "For what?"
"For this." I pressed my hand more firmly against her stomach. "For the most precious gift anyone has ever given me. For... for our baby. For trusting me with something so..."
The words weren’t big enough.
But she understood. She always understood.
"Thank you too," she whispered back, voice thick. "For giving me another child."
"Another?"
"I always wanted more." Her smile was soft, wistful. "After the twins, I thought maybe... but then life happened. The divorce. Double shifts. Raising three kids alone. There was never time, never the right moment, never..."
She trailed off, then laughed quietly. "I never imagined it would happen like this."
"With your son as the father?"
The words hung there—the sheer absurdity of our situation laid bare.
Then Linda snorted.
Actually snorted—an undignified, completely genuine burst of amusement.
"When you put it that way..."
I grinned. "It is pretty fucked up, isn’t it?"
"Incredibly fucked up." But she was grinning too, eyes bright with mirth. "Let’s see... you’re the father. And also the baby’s older brother."
"And you’re the mother. And also, technically the grandmother, since I’m your son."
"Oh God." She covered her face with her free hand, laughing harder—shoulders shaking, tears of mirth mixing with the others. "We’re going to need a flowchart. A very large flowchart. Maybe a PowerPoint."
"Good thing we can afford the most confused genealogist in history."
"Peter!"
"What? It’s true!"
She swatted my chest—light, playful—then buried her face against me again, still giggling.
We were both laughing now—the kind of laughter that teetered right on the edge of hysteria, the type that bubbles up when you stare absurdity in the face and decide to hug it instead of run.
"And the aunts," Linda managed between giggles, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Think about all the aunts this baby is going to have."
"So many aunts," I agreed, grinning like an idiot. "An absolute army of aunts. Spoiling level: expert."
"Madison will be an aunt. Isabella.Janet. Patricia."
"Sarah and Emma will be both sisters and aunts." I paused for dramatic effect. "Double duty. They’ll need business cards."
"That’s—that’s not even biologically possible," she sputtered, dissolving into fresh peals.
"And yet here we are." I spread my hands in mock surrender. "Living proof that family trees can grow in whatever wild shape they want."
Linda lost it again—tears streaming down her face, but these were the good kind: happy, joyful, the ones that come from mining gold out of the ridiculous, from sharing a secret joke so uniquely ours that no one else in the world could possibly get it.
When the laughter finally ebbed—leaving us both breathless, sides aching—she looked up at me with eyes that held no more shadows. No more fear.
Just love.
Pure, uncomplicated, infinite love.
"Our baby is going to be so confused," she said softly, still catching her breath.
"Our baby is going to be so loved," I corrected, voice warm. "Confused, maybe. But surrounded by a fortress of people who’d move mountains for them. Protected. Cherished. Given everything we never had—plus a few ridiculous luxuries, like a pony at age three or a private ice cream truck."
Linda’s expression shifted—growing serious, then proud, her hand pressing over mine on her stomach.
"You’re right," she whispered. "This baby... our baby... is going to be born into the best life imaginable. The life you built, Peter. The empire you created." She reached up, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that made my chest tighten.
"Our child will lack for nothing. Will want for nothing. Will be loved by more people than most kids ever dream of."
"I’m going to make this world perfect for our baby," I promised, voice fierce but light. "Before birth, after birth, every single day. Whatever it takes—building playgrounds on the moon, conquering nap times, creating unbreakable baby gates. I’ll do it. For them. For you."
"I know you will." Her voice thickened with emotion, eyes shining. "That’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been, even before this. The boy who protected everyone he loved, no matter the cost. Even if it meant sneaking extra cookies from the kitchen at midnight to ’save’ me from a bad day."
I chuckled, the memory warming me. "I had a good teacher."
Her smile wobbled, fresh tears pricking. "Peter..."