Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 358

Chapter 358: Step
But Jack? Oh, Jack was the appetizer. The dry-run. The training dummy. Kid was practically begging for a lesson in consequences.

Then there was Janet. Sweet Janet, practically eyeing my estate like it was Noah’s Ark and she was the last panda. Victoria, Anya, Ortega? Same energy. They’d all come. Of course, they would.

Move in? Try and stop them. The place would turn from a sleek mansion into a liberated-harem-war-estate hybrid before the first mortgage payment cleared. Fine. More targets for… enlightenment. More bodies to shield from the soul-crushing mundanity they thought was life.

Chaos loves an audience.

Next up was Meridian-fucking-Agency and the Wellness Center. Yeah, I will the whispers.

“Gigolo.”

“Male escort.”

Ouch. So, devastating. Truly. Like a billionaire being called ‘rich.’ Mock me? Please. Those two places weren’t jobs; they were liberation hunting grounds. Fast-track VIP passes to the Very Important Prisoners I was born to liberate. Trapped in silk cages of wealth and expectation? Perfect. Meridian was the catalog.

The Wellness Center was the emergency room. I’d walk in, flash the smile, drop the vibe, and boom – another soul saved from the tyranny of bad orgasms and worse husbands. Call me what you want – ‘Gigolo,’ ‘Savior,’ ‘Walking Midlife Crisis Inducer’ – it’s all just noise.

“You forgot ‘Teenage Sociopath with a God Complex,'” ARIA added helpfully. “That one’s trending in the group chat Isabella probably doesn’t know she’s part of yet.”

“There’s a group chat?” Soo-Jin asked, suddenly more awake.

“Oh honey,” I said with a small smile, “there’s always a group chat.”

My calling doesn’t require reflection. It requires action. And lube. Lots of lube. Not baby oil, duh.

But the pièce de résistance? Patricia Morrison. Oh, my beloved Patricia. Jack’s mother. My future stepson’s mother. The woman whose spark had been extinguished under decades of marital neglect and Jack-related collateral damage. She owed me a debt. A big one.

The Wellness Center was ground zero for Operation: Patricia’s Salvation. I’d get her there. I’d liberate her. Then? Then came the real fun.

Stepdad Peter’s Bootcamp.

Oh, I’d discipline Jack alright. Not like some belt-wielding cliché. No. I’d discipline him like a master. Crushing his fragile ego? Done. Outmaneuvering his pathetic attempts at relevance? Child’s play. Teaching him the cost of ruining lives? Priceless.

Let him watch. Let him learn.

Because there was a family meeting coming up – the Carter-Torres summit to discuss my engagement with Madison. That was where all the pieces would click into place. The Morrisons would be there. Jack, with the little bastard (me) as he calls me, whose birth was the original sin that sank Patricia’s happiness. Madison, the goddess he failed to capture, now mine. And me? Peter.

By then I will something else… On that day I will be…

The Liberator. The man who fixed Patricia. The man Jack’s ex chose over him.

The future stepdad who was about to make his life a living, ironic masterpiece.

Anyway, so, to the cosmos: I, your Enforcer of Liberation, grant me this. Delay the damn dinner just long enough. Give me the time I need. Because the irony brewing here is too perfect to rush.

Picture it: Jackson Morrison, seated. Probably sweating through his polo shirt. Across from him: Madison Torres, radiant, engaged to me – the boy whose birth ended his parents’ sex and real marriage life–I bet his father still can’t perform even now. With the girl he couldn’t hold, glowing like a supernova he missed.

Next to her? Patricia. My Patricia. Finally alive. Finally satisfied. Finally free from the decade-plus drought he helped impose by merely existing. And me? Peter. His new stepdad. The man who liberated his mother. The man who now has his girlfriend as my own. The man embodying everything he failed to be.

I haven’t even started with Jackson. Breaking him? That’s just the warm-up. The appetizer before the feast of his complete and utter irrelevance. That dinner? It’s not a meeting. It’s my fucking coronation. And Jack? He’s the jester. The living punchline.

I’d planned to have Patricia conquered – liberated, draped in newfound satisfaction, clinging to my arm – before that dinner. Anointed. Victorious. But this weekend was racing toward me like a freight train, and Patricia’s prison door was still proving stubbornly locked.

“Weekend deadline is Saturday night,” ARIA reminded me. “Carter-Torres family summit to discuss your engagement. Patricia liberation window is closing fast. Also, Tommy’s inside probably having a mental breakdown about his new millionaire status.”

“Right, Tommy’s money situation,” I muttered. “Kid went from broke to loaded overnight and now he’s having an existential crisis.”

“Aren’t we all,” Amanda said dryly, finally sitting up properly. “Though some of us handle it better than others.”

“Yeah, right om point, Amanda.”

The gates to Mom’s mansion came into view, and I could already hear Tommy’s voice mixed with what sounded like… shouting. Not celebratory shouting either. The kind that meant someone was having a complete breakdown.

“That’s Emma,” I said quietly, recognizing the voice. “She sounds… angry. Really angry.”

“Domestic nuclear warfare,” Amanda observed, checking her reflection in the car window. “Should we wait in the car?”

“Whatever’s happening in there, hiding won’t fix it.”

“Peter,” ARIA said as we approached the front door, “fair warning: emotional chaos level inside is off the charts. Emma’s stress readings are maxed out, Tommy’s having what appears to be a panic attack, and your mother’s blood pressure suggests she’s about to either cry or commit homicide. Possibly both.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered. “Just what I needed after Isabella’s divorce drama.”

“Welcome to Wednesday,” Amanda said with dark humor as we reached the door. “Where liberation meets family dysfunction.”

“Peter,” ARIA said as we got out of the car, “you know how you were just pontificating about being the universe’s enforcer of liberation? Well, the cosmos apparently has a sense of irony about your homecoming timing. Just… try not to make things worse when you go in there.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” ARIA said thoughtfully, “for someone who claims to be the cosmos’s errand boy for liberation, you might want to consider that sometimes the people who need saving are right under your nose. Just saying.

“Prepare yourself for some humble pie with a side of family.”

“Stop being subtle and tell me what is going on.”

“Mhmm, I almost find it poetic that you’re standing here planning Patricia Morrison’s liberation while your own sister is having what sounds like the emotional equivalent of a nuclear meltdown inside. The universe really does have a twisted sense of timing, doesn’t it?”