NOVGO.NET Chapter 786: When Empires Burn, Monsters are Born
Chapter 786: When Empires Burn, Monsters are Born
And she loved him for it.
And the crazy part?
Nobody judged Peter for it.
They judged her for being lucky.
Then more girls. More women. More stories that sounded insane but kept getting confirmed. Peter Carter—former virgin, former loser, former nothing—was apparently running through Lincoln Heights High’s female population like a wildfire.
And everyone loved him for it.
The boys wanted to be like him. The girls wanted to be with him. Teachers looked at him with new respect. The principal treated him differently.
Peter Carter had become everything Jack used to be.
No.
Worse.
Peter had become what Jack wished he could be.
Because Peter wasn’t just popular. Wasn’t just successful.
He was loved.
People genuinely cared about him. Rooted for him. Wanted him to win.
And Jack?
Jack was the villain everyone wanted to see fall.
The evidence started leaking two months ago.
Jack still didn’t know who was behind it. Didn’t know how they’d gotten access to things that should’ve been private. But someone was systematically destroying him.
First: academic fraud. Recordings of Jack cheating on tests. Video footage of him paying students to write his essays. Messages to teachers offering money for better grades. Performance-enhancing drugs found in his locker with a paper trail leading directly to his bank account.
The school suspended him for two weeks. Launched an investigation. Called his parents.
His father barely looked at him. Said, "You’re a fucking embarrassment."
Then: the parties. Footage Jack didn’t even know existed. Him doing lines of cocaine off bathroom counters. Him sexually harassing girls at his beach house. Him bragging to his friends about the girls he’d manipulated, the girls he’d hurt, the girls whose lives he’d ruined for fun.
All of it uploaded to Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. Viral within hours.
Lincoln Heights High turned on him overnight.
The teammates who used to laugh at his jokes avoided him in hallways. The girls who used to flirt with him looked at him like he was radioactive. Teachers who used to give him special treatment started enforcing rules he’d been exempt from for years.
Then: the college rejections.
Harvard sent their letter first. After careful consideration, we have decided not to move forward with your application.
Then Stanford. Then USC. Then every single Division I school he’d applied to.
Football career: dead.
Academic future: destroyed.
Social status: obliterated.
His parents filed for divorce the same week. His father moved out. His mother stopped pretending to care.
The Morrison Construction shares his grandfather had promised? Contested. His father was threatening to cut him out of the will entirely if the scandal didn’t stop.
But it didn’t stop.
Every day brought new leaks. New evidence. New proof that Jack Morrison was exactly what everyone now believed: an abusive, entitled, predatory piece of shit who’d bought his way through life and hurt people for sport.
And the worst part—the part that made Jack want to put his fist through concrete—was that it was all true.
He’d done everything they accused him of. And more.
He was the villain. The monster. The cautionary tale.
And Peter—Peter—was the one who’d exposed him.
Jack knew it. Didn’t have proof, but he knew.
Because nobody else had motive. Nobody else had access. Nobody else gave enough of a shit about Jack Morrison to orchestrate his systematic destruction with this level of precision.
Only Peter.
The doormat had grown teeth.
And he was using them to tear Jack apart.
Jack scrolled through Instagram again, torturing himself, looking at Peter’s life like picking at a scab, Madison’s posts, Emma, Sarah, even Sofia, Lea. All posted him. But not Peter himself. He did not post shit. He did not even have an account.
New post: Peter and Madison at some fancy restaurant. Her laughing. Him smiling like he’d figured out the secret to happiness.
Seventy thousand followers now. Up from five hundred three months ago.
Comments pouring in like worship.
Relationship goals fr
How did this man level up so hard
Madison is so lucky
Peter really said "watch this" and became a whole king
Jack’s vision blurred. His hands shook. His chest felt tight—like someone was sitting on it, crushing the air out of his lungs.
He’d lost everything.
His girlfriend. His future. His friends. His family. His life.
And Peter had everything.
The girls. The money. The respect. The love.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fucking fair.
Peter was supposed to be nothing. Was supposed to stay broken. Was supposed to accept his place at the bottom and be grateful Jack let him exist at all.
But somehow—somehow—Peter had won.
And Jack was the one in the dirt now, choking on it, drowning in it, wishing he could just stop existing because existing hurt too much.
He looked down at Lincoln Heights spreading below him. Five stories. Concrete at the bottom.
One step. That’s all it would take.
One step, and all of this would stop. The pain, the humiliation, the rage, the helplessness.
One step, and Peter would win completely.
"I’m going to kill him," he rasped to the empty night, voice cracking like thin ice. "I swear to fucking God, I’m going to rip Peter Carter apart."
"I’m afraid you can’t do that."
Jack’s heart stopped.
He spun around, nearly losing his balance, grabbing the railing to keep from falling.
A woman stood fifteen feet away.
She hadn’t been there five seconds ago. Jack would’ve heard the rooftop door open, would’ve heard footsteps on concrete.
But she was there now. Real. Solid. Watching him with eyes that made his skin crawl.
She was... Jesus fucking Christ, she was devastating.
The kind of beautiful that felt like a weapon aimed straight at your soul.
She wore black like it had been forged for her alone—leather jacket tailored sharp and precise, framing her posture with quiet, unyielding authority.
Beneath it, a fitted shirt of dark silk caught the faint glow of the city, the fabric moving with her breath like shadow given form. Pants hugged her form with ruthless elegance, tracing the powerful line of her hips, the controlled strength in her stance, the long, sculpted legs that carried her like she commanded every inch of ground she touched.
Stiletto boots rose sharp and lethal, heels clicking once against the concrete like the cocking of a blade.
Every detail radiated power—cold, absolute, and untouchable. Beauty not as invitation, but as warning. Danger distilled into perfect lines and flawless poise.
She didn’t need to move to dominate the space; the air itself seemed to defer to her, bending around the quiet menace of her presence.
Jack’s brain short-circuited doing the math anyway: easily three hundred grand on the outfit alone. But it wasn’t the cash that made his soul twitch and his blood freeze at the same time.
It was her presence.
She stood there like she owned gravity. Like the city lights bent toward her. Like the night air itself thickened and heated around her body, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of smoke, expensive leather, and something darker—something wet and primal that made Jack’s mouth water even as every survival instinct screamed RUN.
And her eyes.
Dark. Almost black. But wrong. Reflecting light at angles that broke every rule of physics. For one heartbeat, they glowed—red-gold embers flaring deep in the pupils, like twin hellfires banked just beneath the surface.
She blinked. Normal again.
Jack’s throat closed. His hands shook on the railing, knuckles white.
She stood twenty feet away now—hands in her pockets, hips cocked, watching him with lazy, predatory amusement.
Fuck. Me.
Up close she was worse.
Jack’s dick jerked hard against his zipper. His lungs forgot how to work.
The air around her felt wrong—heavy, electric, pressing against his skin like warm oil. Breathing her in was like inhaling lust and terror at once. His chest tightened, soul throbbing painfully, every nerve screaming danger-danger-danger even as his body begged to drop to his knees and bury his face between those lethal thighs.
She pulled her hands from her pockets—slow, deliberate—nails long, black-lacquered, sharp. Extended them toward him in a gesture that was half invitation, half threat.
"But I can help you," she purred, voice like velvet wrapped around broken glass, smooth and expensive and dripping sex. "I can help you endPeter Carter."
The pressure in the air thickened. Became solid. Wrapped around Jack’s throat, squeezed his ribs, crushed the oxygen from his lungs while simultaneously sending a fresh pulse of heat straight to his balls.
And her eyes—
Jesus Christ.
They glowed again. Red-gold flames licking behind the black irises, burning brighter, hungrier. Not a trick of light. Not metaphor.
Actual fucking embers.
Jack stood paralyzed—soul aching, heart slamming, terror and raw animal want twisting together until he couldn’t tell which was stronger.
She smiled.
Slow. Sharp. Fangs glinting just behind perfect lips.
And Jack Morrison understood—far, far too late—that he had just stepped into the orbit of something ancient, ravenous, and beautifully inhuman.
Something that could grant his darkest wish.
Something that would probably fuck him to death in payment.
Her tongue flicked out—slow, deliberate—wetting her lower lip as those burning eyes dropped to the obvious bulge straining his jeans.
"Shall we begin?" she whispered.
The night itself seemed to lean in closer.