NOVEL NEXT Chapter 133: Solo Leveling
The thing about watching Charlotte buy a car was like watching someone glitch reality. Real-life Grand Theft Auto but she had the Konami code and the rest of us were still trying to unlock cruise control.
Mom sat stiff behind the wheel of a car that probably cost more than our house and the neighbors'—clutching it like it might launch into orbit. Meanwhile, Charlotte? She was dialing numbers like she was ordering sushi.
"Corporate insurance, expedited plates, thirty-day temps," she rattled off to Diaz, who was trying not to nut in his pants. Dude was practically levitating. He'd just made more commission in ten minutes than his dad did in two divorces.
Mom blinked at the touchscreen. "What if it breaks?"
Valid fear. In Mom's world, "breakdown" meant pushing the car three miles in heels, crying at a bus stop, and praying your mechanic accepted emotional damage as currency.
Diaz smiled like she'd asked about unicorns. "We've got 24/7 concierge. Roadside, loaners, emergency maintenance. You won't even need to lift a finger, Mrs. Carter. Just say 'Hey Mercedes,' and she obeys like a good little robot."
Mom looked like she was two seconds away from both sobbing and throwing up in tandem.
In the backseat, Emma was talking about heated seats like she'd just discovered fire. Sarah was flipping through the car manual like she had a test on it next week. And me? I was just watching them all try to breathe for the first time in forever.
Two hours ago, Mom was rationing grocery money like we were in a Cold War bunker.
Now she's behind the wheel of a car that screams main character energy—or at least "divorced influencer mom starting her comeback."
Charlotte slid her phone into her bag like she'd just closed a hostile takeover. "All set. Car's yours. Insurance activated. My home butler's handling the donation of the old one. Should give you a nice tax write-off."
Even Mom's crusty, possibly haunted car got a funeral with champagne and caviar. In Charlotte's world, even garbage got a farewell tour and a tribute montage.
Diaz handed over the keys like he was baptizing her. Mom stared at them like they might explode.
And then boom—hard cut to Charlotte's suite.
Imagine if Fashion Week and a Kardashian closet had a baby and then exploded. Shopping bags were everywhere. Personal shoppers buzzing around like luxury locusts. It was like we left for a side quest and came back to a fully unlocked bonus level.
Emma looked around, half-terrified. "Did we really buy all this?"
Sarah checked the price tags like she was scanning legal evidence. "I think I blacked out. This is five semesters of textbooks. Minimum."
Mom just… stood there. Her "tiny, humble haul"? Still made her look like a supporting character on Grey's Anatomy—probably the hospital's CEO with a dark past and a white Maserati.
Then came Janet. Clipboard. Diamond watch. Smelled like Chanel and generational wealth. The kind of woman who knew how to handle her customers and orgasms without smudging her lipstick.
"Delivery address, please," she said, all business—except she kept glancing at me like she was replaying last week's rendezvous on a mental projector.
Madison caught it instantly. She glanced between us, smirked, and let out a low chuckle—the kind that said, "Oh, so that's why she's not blinking."
I didn't say a word. Just let the tension hang there, smug satisfaction curling at the edges of my smile.
Janet adjusted her clipboard like it could somehow restore her professionalism. Spoiler: it couldn't. Not after the things she moaned with my hand around her throat.
And to her credit? She tried. She gave Madison a tight smile and turned back to logistics like she hadn't spent an entire evening breaking the company's HR policy in four different positions.
But Madison leaned in a little closer, voice dipped in amusement. "Should I be worried about her getting emotionally attached?"
I shrugged. "She is my woman."
And yeah—Janet heard that too.
Her pen scratched a little harder against the form.
Not my fault professionalism gets blurry when your legs are shaking.
Madison chuckled, "You really don't discriminate, do you?" I just laughed, I love all my woman, new or not while we get to know each other.
Charlotte moved like a general at the end of a flawless campaign—tight, cold, efficient. Just as she was about to drop the mic, her phone buzzed.
One glance.
The vibe changed.
"Crisis," she said, voice clipped, eyes shark-level focused. "Can't wait till Monday, apparently."
And then—bam—she turned and walked off. Her driver emerged from the shadows like he'd been summoned via Bat-Signal. Older. Sharp suit. Probably ex-CIA. Definitely the kind of guy who knows how to dispose of both evidence and ex-husbands.
"Mrs. Carter, enjoy the car," Charlotte said with a nod so smooth it made you forget she just casually restructured our entire life.
"Peter," she added without looking at me, "I'll welcome myself to the family next time."
Then—poof. Gone.
No dramatic goodbyes. No tearful hugs. Charlotte Sterling didn't exit. She deployed.
Like Beyoncé at the Met Gala. Like Leonardo DiCaprio leaving his girlfriend at 25. Like a boss with zero need for applause.
And you know what?
We all kind of wanted to clap anyway.
Mom stood beside her new GLE like someone had handed her the cockpit of a spaceship."I should probably figure out how to drive this without killing anyone," she said, tapping the steering wheel like it might self-destruct.
Madison dangled her Range Rover keys with a casual grin. "Want to ride with me? Give your family some breathing room."
Smart play. Let Mom test-drive her new life without backseat commentary.
"You good flying solo?" I asked.
She straightened like a soldier reporting for duty—the same posture she wore when bills piled up and life demanded blood. "I've handled worse than German engineering."
Sarah was already in shotgun, flipping through the manual like she was cramming for finals. Emma was in the back, screaming joyfully over seat heaters like she'd never sit on a cold surface again.
Through Madison's window, I watched them. Mom adjusting the mirrors like they were made of gold, Sarah pointing at digital controls, Emma pressing every glowing button like it might open a portal to Narnia.
"They're adapting fast," Madison said, sliding a hand into mine.
"They've had practice," I said. "Mom raised three kids with nothing but nurse pay and iron grit while dodging emotional landmines from a billionaire ex. Compared to that? Learning a luxury SUV probably feels like a vacation."
She nodded, quiet for a beat. "You know today changed everything."
And I did. I felt it in my bones. The air was different. The streetlights looked expensive. We were still in the same neighborhood—but it wasn't ours anymore. Not in the way it used to be. It was just a backdrop now. Set dressing for something much, much bigger.
My phone buzzed.
Sarah: Mom's doing great but keeps asking if this is an elaborate prank. Emma's posted twenty Instagram stories documenting every button.
Me: Tell Mom it's real. Tell Emma to save content for when we move into a mansion next..
Sarah: Emma just screamed.
As we turned down our street, the suburban curtain twitched hard. Mr. Calisto was "watering his plants," hose limp, eyes locked on the convoy. Ms. Chen, Tommy's mom, "checking her mail" for the fourth time today, squinting like our vehicles had driven straight off a Vogue spread.
Madison parked behind Mom's GLE. Inside, I could still see them—staring at the dash like it held the secrets of the universe. You could practically feel the recalibration happening in real time.
"Ready to go home?" Madison asked.
But we both knew… home didn't mean what it used to.
And while my family tried to wrap their heads around touchscreens and German luxury, I was already ten steps ahead—already inside the Vampire House before we ever crossed its threshold.
It wasn't just a home. It was going to be my headquarters. My playground. My throne room.
I could see it all: the tech center glowing underground, ARIA whispering to me through LED-lit screens as I ran empires in silence. The main floor redesigned into a modern palace, where whispered deals and discreet debauchery blurred into one.
A house where power dressed like pleasure and nothing innocent ever survived long.
And beyond that—everything else.
Madison sunbathing beside the pool in that bikini that short-circuited rational thought. Isabella slipping past marble pillars for private sessions in the upstairs suite. Charlotte, hair tied back, in the tech center discussing neural net optimization while fighting the memory of how it felt to lose control.
I wouldn't need to chase power.
I'd become the place where it congregated.
The wives of venture capitalists showing up with fake excuses and real hunger in their eyes. Daughters of politicians who were sick of perfection letting their rebellion ride in on my lap. Women with empires of their own, walking through my doors convinced they were untouchable—until I showed them what it meant to be wanted by someone who didn't need anything from them.
Whispers would spread. In beauty clinics. In private lounges. In hush-toned conversations between women who'd tasted everything and realized they were still starving.
The Vampire House wouldn't be a myth. It'd be a legend. A shrine to temptation built on the ashes of who I used to be.
Tommy had no idea how close his theory really was.
I wasn't drinking blood.
I was devouring power, trust, desire—everything people guarded like treasure.
From a kid with holes in his sneakers and no name worth remembering—to the owner of a fortress where every soul that stepped through the gates left marked.
That's what happens when you stop begging for survival… And start building a kingdom instead.
The transformation?
Locked in.
Now?
Now the real fun begins.