Because Peter's birth mother—some high-dollar escort who'd worked the LA elite circuit like a pro—had nuked Jack's family before he even knew what a hard-on was.
The story Jack had stitched together from his parents' hissed fights and his father's vodka-soaked rants:
Richard Morrison had hired her for one night. One paid fuck. One bored rich-man transaction.
Except whatever magic that woman worked on him shattered something permanent. Rewired his cock. Left him limp for his own wife from that day forward. Psychological ED. No pills, no therapy, no nothing could fix it.
Patricia Morrison found out. Confronted him. Screamed for answers. Got none.
Their marriage turned into a tax write-off with rings still on. Separate bedrooms. Separate lives. His father retreated into silence and scotch. His mother weaponized her rage—turned it into a scalpel, carving her way to the top of the hospital admin ladder while quietly hating the woman who'd stolen her husband's dick.
