Chapter 45: Shopping, Family Confrontation: When Two Worlds Collide

Chapter 45: Shopping, Family Confrontation: When Two Worlds CollideDriving Madison’s BMW through the high-end shopping district felt like entering a different dimension where money wasn’t real and price tags were just suggestions. The enhanced driving skills kicked in automatically— smooth gear changes, perfect parking, handling the luxury vehicle like I was born behind the wheel of German engineering excellence. Supernatural abilities really didn’t fuck around when it came to making you competent at everything. Madison directed me to a shopping center that looked more like a palace than a mall. Everything was marble, glass, and the kind of lighting that made even ugly people look photogenic. The stores had names I couldn’t pronounce and window displays that probably cost more than my mom’s annual salary. This was where people shopped when money wasn’t an object. When choosing between expensive and more expensive was the biggest financial decision you faced. "First stop," Madison announced as we parked, "new phone and laptop. Your current tech is embarrassing." We walked into an Apple Store that was more like a tech temple, and Madison immediately got the attention of someone who looked like a manager. Within minutes, they were bringing out the latest everything—iPhone, MacBook, iPad, accessories I didn’t even know existed. "The usual package, Miss Torres?" the manager asked with practiced deference. She had a "usual package" at the fucking Apple Store? That was next-level rich. "Plus, whatever my boyfriend wants," she said casually, like she was ordering coffee instead of thousands of dollars’ worth of electronics. Next came the clothing, and this was where I started to understand the true scope of Madison’s world. She led me into stores where they knew her by name, where staff immediately started clearing out changing areas and bringing champagne without being asked. These people treated Madison like visiting royalty. Which, considering her family’s wealth, she basically was. "Miss Torres," a well-dressed woman who was clearly the store manager approached with practiced elegance, "shall we have the usual privacy arrangements?" Again, with the usual! "Please," Madison replied, and suddenly the entire section we were in got cordoned off with velvet ropes. Other customers were politely redirected to different areas. Staff scattered and reassembled like her arrival triggered a retail protocol. A guy in a suit handed her a flute of champagne before I even knew we were staying. Someone else started roping off a private section. What followed was the most surreal two hours of my life. I was trying on clothes that cost more than my bike while Madison provided expert commentary and staff members hovered with the kind of attention usually reserved for celebrities. The tricky part was explaining why I needed two completely different wardrobes without sounding insane. Madison handled this with the smooth expertise of someone who’d been managing social complexity her entire life. "Peter’s expanding his image," she explained to the increasingly curious staff. "Some pieces for his academic side, others for social events. Very different contexts, you’d never understand." She was covering for my dual identity needs without missing a beat. As we moved from store to store—Armani, Hugo Boss, Tom Ford, places I’d only heard about in movies—I started to see different layers of Madison’s personality. In public, she had this arrogant rich girl energy, the "I don’t give a fuck" attitude that came from never having to worry about money or consequences. She was demanding, spoiled, expected immediate service and got it. Madison Torres in her natural habitat was exactly what you’d expect from a trust fund princess. But when she looked at me, when she thought the staff wasn’t watching, her expression softened. Every suggestion she made, every outfit she chose, every decision was made with genuine care and attention to what would actually look good on me. Underneath the spoiled rich girl act, she was doing all of this because she loved me. Actually, loved me. "Try this," she said, handing me a jacket. "The color will make your eyes look incredible." She wasn’t just buying me expensive clothes—she was curating a wardrobe designed to make me look as good as possible. When I tried to pay for anything, Madison immediately shut it down. "Absolutely not," she said when I pulled out my wallet. "This was one of my plans for today. I was just waiting for the right moment to suggest it, but you brought it up first." She’d been planning to give me a rich boy makeover anyway. The final total was staggering: $447,000 for everything we bought. Forty-seven thousand dollars spent in a single afternoon like it was pocket change. Fuck me! Here I was planning to use only $50,000 of my $200k thinking it would be wasteful. When we arrived at my house, I grabbed only the bags containing Peter Carter’s new wardrobe—the clothes that wouldn’t raise too many questions about sudden wealth. "I’ll come back for the rest later," I told Madison, "Once I figure out how to reorganize my room properly." I couldn’t exactly walk into my house carrying thousands of dollars’ worth of designer clothes without causing a family crisis. "No problem," she said with understanding. "I’ll keep the other stuff for Dark Peter safe." Outside the car, she pulled me into a deep kiss that tasted like luxury and promises. When we broke apart, her eyes were soft with affection. "Thank you," I told her, meaning it completely. "Thank you for letting me take care of you," she replied, then drove off in her BMW, leaving me standing in my driveway holding shopping bags worth more than my mom’s car. Time to face reality and figure out how to explain this to my family. The moment I walked through the front door, Mom was waiting in the living room like she’d been planning this intervention for hours. Her arms were crossed, her expression was carved from stone, and she was looking at the designer shopping bags like they were evidence of a crime she’d been dreading. ’Well, shit. This was going to be brutal.’ "Peter," she said, her voice carrying that tone that meant I was about to get the full parental prosecution experience, "we need to talk. Right now." It wasn’t a request. It was a court summons from the woman who gave me everything. I set the bags down and took a seat on our worn couch, suddenly hyperaware of the contrast between the luxury I’d just experienced and the reality of where I actually lived. From marble floors and champagne service to our living room where the couch was held together by determination and love. "I’ve been hearing things all day," Mom continued, pacing in front of me like a prosecutor building her case. "About you and the Torres girl. About expensive cars and shopping trips and..." She paused, her voice catching slightly. "About what happened in the library." ’Oh fuck. The library rumors had made it all the way home?’ "You think I don’t know what this looks like?" she continued, her voice getting more strained with each word. "My son, who two days ago was wearing the same three shirts on rotation, suddenly coming home with designer shopping bags after spending the afternoon with the richest girl in school? After rumors about you two... making out in public?" ’When she put it like that, it sounded exactly like what she thought it was.’ But then her voice broke, and I saw something in her eyes that cut deeper than any anger could—pure, devastating disappointment. ’Mom.’