Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 346

Chapter 346: Sable Rivera
The heavy oak doors swung inward without a sound, admitting a vision that stopped time itself.

She moved like honey poured over silk—a woman carved from a bygone era of Technicolor dreams and whispered scandals. Her dress screamed Old Hollywood glamour: a crimson satin sheath that hugged every lethal curve of her hourglass figure, the neckline plunging just enough to promise damnation.

Hem brushing mid-calf, seam straight as a razor against nylon-sheathed legs. Hair? Bottled platinum waves cascading past bare shoulders, catching the chandelier light like spun gold. Lips painted a violent, wet red—a slash of defiance against porcelain skin.

A pearl choker sat snug against her throat, both adornment and collar. Perfume preceded her: jasmine and bourbon and something else.

Danger.

She stopped just inside the threshold, one gloved hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding a leather portfolio folder like a shield. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Age hadn’t touched—it had distilled. Crow’s feet at the corners of eyes the color of storm clouds? Not wrinkles. Battle scars. Eyes that missed nothing. A cougar in her prime, dressed to kill and knowing it.

Her thoughts flooded my mind, sharp and bourbon-soaked:

{Holy fuck. Who the hell is this? He’s so younger than I expected… but those eyes. Christ, those eyes look like they’ve seen hell and bought the fucking T-shirt. That attire… tailored like a second skin. Money. Real money. Quiet money. Dangerous godly being.}

I allowed myself to lean forward slightly, showing the first hint of interest. Let her think the seduction was working.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice carrying just enough warmth to seem affected by her presence. “You must be from the Empress’s Assistant.”

{Christ, what is it about him? I spend my days giving orders, controlling meetings, making executives twice my age jump when I speak. But looking at him… I want him to take control completely. Not just in business – in everything. }

She moved—not walked, glided. Steps silent on the parquet, hips swaying with deliberate, measured grace. The scent of her intensified, wrapping around me like a velvet fist. Her storm-cloud eyes bored into mine, a flicker of something raw and hungry behind the polished ice queen facade.

“Mr. Desiderion,” she murmured, voice like whiskey poured over gravel—low, cultured, with an undercurrent of smoky amusement. “I’m Sable Rivera, the Empress’s… personal assistant. She regrets she is momentarily detained. She sends her regards… and her apologies for the delay.”

ARIA’s voice whispered in my mind: “Master. Subject: Sable Rivera, 49. Role: Executive Assistant & Family Historian. Primary target, Empress Catalina Rivera, is observing via camera feed in the Klimt frame. Audio monitoring active. Subject Sable is assessing you for the Empress.”

Perfect. I kept my expression neutral, showing just enough reaction to seem genuine.

{I’m imagining him pulling me across his lap right here, making me submit while the cameras watch. The thought of Catalina seeing me lose all composure… it should horrify me, but instead it’s making me ache.}

Gods, I like sex starved women, they’re direct and straightforward even in their thoughts

She moved like liquid sin poured into that crimson satin, every step a study in calculated allure. The dress clung—painted—across her breasts, heavy and full, pressing against the silk like ripe fruit demanding harvest.

The neckline plunged, framing deep, sun-kissed cleavage that swayed with each deliberate step. And Christ, the nipples—two hard, demanding points scraping against the fabric, visible even in the filtered light, twin beacons of her arousal she made no effort to hide.

Her hips… God. They rolled with the rhythm of a forbidden tango, flaring out from a suddenly cinched waist before narrowing into those mile-long nylon-sheathed legs.

The dress hugged the swell of her ass like a lover’s hand, molding to every inch, the fabric taut across the generous, rounded curve. It was an ass built for worship, for gripping, for brand spanking-red handprints.

She paused at the edge of the sitting area, one hand resting lightly on the high back of the emerald velvet sofa, the angle subtly pushing her hip out—a silent, blatant invitation.

{Those hands… I want them everywhere. Gripping my hair, holding me down, showing me exactly who’s in charge. For once in my life, I want to kneel for someone. Right here on this Persian rug.}

She placed the portfolio on the glass table with a soft thump, the gesture elegant but calculated. “The Empress wanted me to brief you on the current… situation… while you wait. If that’s acceptable?”

I gestured to the chair across from me, maintaining eye contact just long enough to seem slightly affected. “Please. I appreciate any context you can provide.”

{God, I’m so tired of being the one everyone fears, the ice queen who never breaks. With him… I want to break. I want to be his completely. His to command, his to own, his to use however he sees fit.}

Sable settled into the chair with fluid grace, crossing her legs in a way that made the satin dress ride up slightly. She opened the portfolio, but her eyes stayed on me.

“The Antonio situation has been… challenging for the family,” she began, her voice carrying the practiced tone of someone used to handling sensitive information. “His arrest has created certain… vulnerabilities in our media operations.”

I nodded, leaning back slightly. “I imagine losing a key executive unexpectedly would disrupt any organization. How severe is the operational impact?”

{Why am I thinking these things? I’ve never wanted to submit to anyone – I’ve built my entire life on being untouchable, unbreakable. But the way he sits there, so calm and controlled while I’m falling apart inside…}

“Significant,” she admitted, her professional mask slipping slightly. “Antonio controlled several key relationships with our content creators, advertising partners, and distribution networks. His… legal troubles have made some of them nervous about continued association.”

“And the financial exposure from the lawsuits?” I asked, knowing exactly what cards I was about to play.

Sable’s composure faltered for just an instant. “Substantial. The Quantum Tech suit alone which you represent could reach two billion. Harvard and Stanford are pursuing additional damages. Our insurance will cover some costs, but…”

“But that’s just the beginning,” I interrupted smoothly. “Let me show you something.”

I pulled my watch. “ARIA, show Ms. Rivera the complete lawsuit exposure analysis.”

The screen lit up and turned into a solid 55inch screen with numbers that made Sable’s breath catch but also the way a small watch turned into a big tangible energy screen was staggering.

“The Quantum Tech suit is seeking $2 billion, yes,” I said calmly. “But Charlotte Thompson’s personal damages claim adds another $800 million minimum.”

Sable’s storm-cloud eyes widened. “Eight hundred million? For personal—”

“Tech company valuations are extremely sensitive to CEO credibility,” I explained, leaning forward slightly. “Academic fraud allegations against a CEO can trigger instant investor panic, partner withdrawals, complete market collapse. Quantum Tech’s valuation sits at $8.2 billion. If Charlotte’s reputation gets destroyed by these false allegations, even a 40% drop means $3.2 billion in market cap evaporation.”

I let that sink in before continuing. “But the real damage? Personal brand destruction for a young female tech CEO. She’s twenty-six, brilliant, and built her company from nothing from where her father left off. These allegations wouldn’t just hurt her company—they’d destroy her ability to ever raise capital again. No board would touch her. No investors would meet with her. That kind of career assassination for someone her age? The courts could easily award a billion in personal damages alone.”

I continued on for five minutes, giving her the full scope of this.

{Holy fuck. This handsome godly kid understands litigation strategy better than our entire legal team. And the way he’s laying it out… it’s not a threat, it’s just facts. Cold, brutal facts.}

“Then add Harvard and Stanford,” I continued, swiping to show more projections. “They’re not just seeking damages for the donation—they want punitive awards for ‘conspiracy to defraud educational institutions.’ Their combined claims push another $1.7 billion.”

Sable’s knuckles went white gripping her portfolio. “That’s…”

“$4.5 billion in total exposure,” I said quietly. “Not counting legal fees, which will run minimum $50 million even if you win. Not counting the PR costs to rebuild the Rivera brand. Not counting the opportunity costs while your entire C-suite is tied up in depositions for the next three years.”

She leaned back in her chair, and I could see her mind racing through the implications.

{I want to call him sir and mean it. I want to crawl to him and thank him for the privilege. How does he have all this data?}