Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 349

Chapter 349: Breakfast, Bows, and Borrowed Moms
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.”

“Ms. Chen, please,” I begged, feeling my face combust like that time I accidentally broadcast *** Kardashians nudes on the church widescreen during Easter Mass. “Stop. You’re literally my second mom. This is ritualistic humiliation.”

And Christ, speak of mind-fucking torture—the woman was a goddess carved from midnight and expensive silk. Sorry, but facts were facts: Lily Chen was the goddamn MILF MVP of Lincoln Heights, and today she’d declared open season on my sanity.

She sat across from me, afternoon light slamming into her skin like it had been summoned by her presence. The silk dress—deep burgundy that probably cost more than your annual grocery budget—clung like a second skin, declaring war on decency.

It hugged her curves with a softness that felt like violence—silk whispering threats against skin, mapping every swell and dip with betraying precision.

Her breasts pressed into the fabric like ripe watermelon fruit straining against silk, full and natural, the burgundy depth making them look bruised, edible, the thin weave revealing the faint halo of areolas beneath, at least to me— a delicate shadow that made the air around them feel thicker, charged.

Neckline screaming invitation not statement—a plunging V that wasn’t daring, but devastating, cutting a clean line to the swell of cleavage, exposing the soft valley where collarbone met sternum, a dark shadowed hollow that promised secrets.

Her waist nipped in sharply— the subtle suggestion of corset boning visibly straining against her torso, carving an exaggerated hourglass that made the silk work to hold her, every breath making the fabric whisper rebellion against its task.

The taut pull drew the eye inevitably downward, where the slight flare of her hips began—a gentle sway that wasn’t movement but existence, a constant, hypnotic rhythm as the silk clung then released over the gentle jut of her hipbones.

Legs crossed with lethal grace—one knee slightly raised, the silk pulling taut across her thigh, revealing the hard line of muscle beneath, the curve so perfect it looked carved, not grown. The edge of her dress, where silk met skin at her knee, gleamed like a blade in the afternoon light—a bright, dangerous slash against the deep burgundy.

Every inch of her was a battlefield of sensation—softness that cut, grace that killed, elegance that bled raw desire. The dress wasn’t clothing; it was a confinement spell, and she was the sorceress barely contained within its whispers.

“Thank you for looking out for Tommy,” she said, voice like honey poured over gravel, each word a deliberate caress on my mind that was already fucking her over the table, fuck, this needs to stop, right? “He’s all I have.”

Mom chimed in from the kitchen, brandishing a spatula like a fucking broadsword. “If he hadn’t helped Tommy, I’d have disowned him myself!”

Everyone swiveled to stare at Linda Carter, RN—ICU ward terror with a spatula scepter.

“I’m serious,” Mom declared, pointing the spatula at me like it held court-martial power. “Tommy’s been looking out for Peter since they were five. Remember when those Morrison bastards tried to stuff Peter in a locker? Tommy bit one of them. Drew blood. Tetanus shot.”

She smiled—a predator’s flash of teeth—at the memory. “Since then, I heard they never dared to bully my boy, ever! That’s family. And if my son didn’t help family when they needed it, then he wouldn’t be the son I raised.” If she only knew.

The warmth in the room was almost suffocating—a thick blanket of sentiment, obligation, and unspoken history.

Charlotte sat quietly in the corner, observing everything with those calculating eyes—taking mental notes, filing away the dynamics, the alliances, the pressure points. Madison watched in rapt fascination—this was her first audience with the legendary Ms. Chen, the woman I’d mentioned maybe three times in passing, always in hushed tones.

“Though, I am surprised to hear it only today… I didn’t know Peter was engaged,” Ms. Chen said suddenly, eyes sharpening like scalpels as they shifted to Madison, a predator scenting fresh game. “Such a beautiful girl. How did you meet?”

SMACK.

The sound of Ms. Chen’s hand connecting with the back of Tommy’s head cracked through the living room like a gunshot.

Tommy’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “MOM.”

“You didn’t tell me Peter was ENGAGED?” She switched to rapid-fire Mandarin—guttural, furious, sharp—that I’m 99.7% certain contained at least twelve different ways to call him an idiot, ungrateful bastard, and disgrace to his ancestors. “Your best friend, your brother, gets engaged and you don’t tell your mother?”

Tommy scrambled away from her reach, diving toward the couch where Emma sat, his body a panicked blur. “It’s complicated! They’re not technically—OW! Mom, stop!”

Emma stiffened violently as Tommy landed next to her—her whole body locking rigid like high-voltage current had just been dumped into her spine.

She shifted with lightning speed, putting deliberate, desperate distance between them, gripping her water bottle so tight the plastic crackled under the pressure, whining like a threatening fuse.

Tommy noticed, his face falling like a stone monument collapsing, all the blood draining away. “Emma, I’m not—”

“Don’t,” she said quietly. Her voice was flat—emptied of everything, not cold but hollow, vacant. “I don’t run a pity-party.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

“Yes, you are.” Her voice was still dead, toneless, but beneath the emptiness, something sharp and raw threatened to tear through. “Everyone is. Poor little Emma who got—”

She cut herself off mid-sentence, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in her cheek, teeth grinding behind pale lips, swallowing the rest of the confession like poison.

“That’s not—” Tommy’s voice cracked like crumbling concrete. “Emma, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. I changed your diapers when your mom was working and Peter was too busy playing video games to notice you’d shit yourself. I’m not pitying you. I’m worried about you. There’s a difference.”

Fuck off buddy, she changed your diapers once, and Ms. Chen was there hovering like a goddamn helicopter parent. Your diaper-duty story belongs in the trash bin of exaggerations.

“I don’t need your worry either,” Emma shot back, but her voice wavered—frayed at the edges like old rope.

“Too bad,” Tommy said firmly. “You’re stuck with it. Just like you’re stuck with me teaching you to code, and stuck with me making sure you eat actual food instead of living on Pop-Tarts, and stuck with me being here whether you want me or not.”

Emma’s eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall—glittering gems trapped behind iron gates. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Tommy said gently, his voice softening like old leather. “You hate that you can’t control how people feel about you. But guess what? I’m going to care about you anyway. Deal with it.”

The room hung suspended—silence thick enough to choke on—broken only by Mom’s whisker whisking aggressively in the kitchen, a rhythmic percussion to the emotional carnage unfolding in the living room.

Ms. Chen cleared her throat delicately, the sound cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “Madison, dear, how long have you and Peter been together?”