Breakfast at the Carter household had mutated into a goddamn UN peace conference crossed with a telenovela feeding frenzy—with me trapped at the center as the sacrificial lamb.
Tommy showed up around 10 AM dragging his mom like battle armor, and when Ms. Chen got the full download—the API deal, the billionaire-bestie package, the whole "make my son rich" fairy tale—she hit me with a full-frontal assault of traditional Asian mom gratitude.
Which meant bowing. Deep, soul-crushing, spine-liquifying bows that made me want to melt into the floorboards and die painfully. Three times. Forehead nearly kissing my fucking knees every time.
"Peter," she wheezed rising, hands clasped so tight her knuckles glowed bone-white like she was praying to me instead of some seventeen-year-old punk with supernatural dick energy and morally bankrupt life choices. "What you've done for Tommy... I can never..." Her voice cracked, thick with tears and reverence. "This. I can never repay."
