Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 388

Chapter 388: BioLa Deal
“Madison,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm but failing spectacularly. Probably sounded more like a choke than an actual word. Great, Carter. Smooth.

The phone burned my hand, warm and insistent, like it knew this was the only lifeline keeping me from losing it entirely. I pressed it closer to my ear, straining for every background sound—there it was: faint air conditioning humming, some echo that screamed fancy house alert, probably marble floors somewhere in the Torres estate.

After all, everything she touches sparkles.

“Peter.” Her voice… shit. Not the Madison who walks into rooms like she owns the universe. This was tired, strained, carrying the kind of weight you only notice when the world actually starts folding on top of you.

Armor with cracks. And me? I noticed. Always notice.

I padded toward the kitchen, bare feet whispering against the hardwood. Charlotte could hear a pin drop, but fuck it—I needed space. I needed privacy, or at least a wall between me and potential judgment. The kitchen smelled like garlic, herbs, and whatever secret scent Charlotte carried that made a house feel less like a building and more like home.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” Madison said, pacing, heels clicking against… yep. Marble. Expensive, echoing marble. The kind of floors that announce your arrival like a royal decree. “There’s been… trouble at home.”

Trouble. That single word hit like a gut punch. Not teen drama. Not some petty fight. Business trouble. The kind that could swallow cities.

“What kind of trouble?” I leaned against the kitchen island, fingers drumming, trying to act casual. Spoiler: failing.

“Torres Developments lost a major deal today.” The words emerged flat, defeated, stripped of the Torres family’s usual corporate confidence. “We’ve been working on it for months. There’s this massive laboratory complex that’s been abandoned for years—industrial-grade research facility spanning nearly fifty acres in the heart of LA’s tech corridor.”

I could picture her perfectly. Standing by those floor-to-ceiling windows, one hand pressed against glass, the other gesturing like she couldn’t help herself. The Torres family treated the city below like a chessboard—and they played to win. I’d been staring at a chessboard for years, trying to catch up.

“The facility used to belong to some pharmaceutical giant that crashed in the last recession,” she went on, finding her rhythm again, slipping into business-mode like a ninja switching masks mid-battle. “Prime real estate, infrastructure ready, perfect for anyone wanting a West Coast HQ.”

“And someone wanted it,” I said, voice slipping lower, tighter.

“BioLa.”

The name hit me in the gut. Heavy. Unknown, but you could feel the weight. Big money, big plans, bigger headaches. “They wanted it completely renovated. Expanded. Their crown jewel on the West Coast.”

And then she paused. God, the pause. You could feel it radiate over the line. Shit was coming.

Oh, hell. This is bad. Really bad.

“Twenty billion dollars, Peter. Twenty billion.”

Her voice didn’t just say the number. It cracked under the weight of it, a fissure in the usual armor of Madison Torres, CEO. Damn. That’s the sound of a dynasty starting to tremble.

“We beat Darlus Constructions. It wasn’t even a fight. Our proposal was sharper, our financing was cleaner, we had the city in our pocket. Tomorrow was supposed to be the signing.” The victory lap. The coronation.

I let the number hang in the air between us. Twenty billion. Not a setback—a severed artery. Torres Developments’ last big win was that La Cherry’s branch in New York over a year ago. They weren’t just stagnant; they were thirsty. And this deal was the whole damn ocean. She needed it. I could feel the pressure through the phone, a physical weight threatening to crush the receiver. My queen is under siege.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice flat. Keep it cool, Peter. Panic is contagious, and I’m immune.

“Everything changed in hours.” I could hear her pacing now, the sharp click of heels on marble turning into a frantic tap-tap-tap on a Persian rug. The acoustics told the whole story: from confident strides to cornered-animal circles. “BioLa called. Canceled. No explanation. No discussion. Just… poof. Gone.”

The frustration in her voice was a live wire. But underneath it was something worse—the hollow echo of genuine shock. Madison Torres doesn’t get shocked. She anticipates. She calculates. If she was blindsided, this wasn’t business as usual. This was an ambush.

“The rumors started before I’d even hung up the phone,” she said, the words coming faster now. “Darlus Construction is stepping in. But nothing’s final. The timing is too perfect. Too clean. This was a hit, Peter. Someone orchestrated this.”

I could already see the chessboard. Some shadow player moving pieces in the dark. Calling in favors, applying pressure, maybe just writing a bigger, dirtier check. This wasn’t bad luck. This was a declaration of war.

“Madison,” I said, cutting through the noise. “How bad is this? Really?”

The silence that followed was louder than any number. It was the sound of her weighing how much truth she could afford to admit. When Madison Torres hesitates, the situation isn’t just bad. It’s five-alarm-fire, the-building-is-coming-down, we-might-not-survive-this bad.

And that’s when I knew. This wasn’t just her problem anymore. It was mine too.

“Bad. Really bad.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper thin as cracked glass. “Our last major project was the La Cherry’s expansion in New York. Over a year ago. The small contracts? They’re life support, not a heartbeat. We need this deal, Peter. Without it…”

She didn’t have to finish. I could see the obituary written in the air: Torres Developments, once a titan, reduced to just another name on a hard hat. Reputations aren’t built on playing it safe. They’re built on miracles. And this deal was supposed to be theirs. Torres Developments had built its reputation on landing and executing massive projects. Without them, they were just another construction company in a city full of them.

“The family meeting tomorrow—” I started, a thread of hope I didn’t know I was clinging to.

“Postponed. Indefinitely.” The relief in her voice was a tangible thing, a shuddering exhale after holding her breath for too long. “Mom and Linda talked at the hospital. They agreed to push it back until this… crisis… is handled.”

A delay. The word echoed in my skull, followed by a much darker, more selfish thought.

Time. Time I had practically begged the cosmos for. Time to work on the magnificent, ice-cold fortress that was Patricia. A cold knot of narcissistic dread tightened in my gut. Did I just get my wish answered by watching her family’s empire catch fire? The thought was so fucking monstrous I started to spiral.

Guilt, that pesky little ghost, wrestled with a thrilling, opportunistic darkness. Her crisis, my opening. What does that make me?

I was free-falling into that particular abyss when a familiar, crystalline voice sang a single, pure note in my mind. ARIA. My digital guardian angel, who apparently also moonlighted as a corporate spy.

“Master, I initiated deep-analysis protocols on BioLa and Darlus Constructions three seconds ago, correlating data from your conversations with Madison. The financial patterns indicate collusion, not competition. Probability of a hostile takeover strategy: 94.7%. I have formulated a counter-strategy that would not only recover the deal but increase Torres Developments’ projected profit margin by approximately twenty-five percent.”

The ARIA’s cool, logical certainty was a bucket of ice water. Of course she’d been working. While I was having a minor existential crisis, ARIA was already waging the war. She probably saw this shitstorm coming before BioLa’s CEO even picked up the phone.

The spiral stopped. The guilt evaporated. Replaced by the cold, clean clarity of a predator spotting the trap—and the hunter who set it.

“Madison,” I said, my voice shifting from concerned boyfriend to field general in a heartbeat. “Forget about it for tonight.”

“Forget about twenty billion dollars?” she scoffed, but I heard the flicker of hope. She knew that tone.

“Come over tomorrow. We’ll go shopping. And we’ll discuss how we’re going to get your deal back.”

“Shopping?” Curiosity was now fully elbowing exhaustion out of the way. “Out where?”