Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 562

Chapter 562: Tsundere and the Firestorm
Of course those encounters weren’t isolated. They were the loudest plates shifting in a long, slow tectonic grind under everything Lea and I touched. Two weeks passed, and I stopped reacting like a stunned animal and started studying her like I was prepping for a final she didn’t want me to pass.

In the early chaos after the system activated, I’d avoided her without thinking. Easier that way. Then I disappeared for a week to juggle the harem like an idiot, and when I came back, the whole school was a hornet colony waiting to sting me. I didn’t bother looking beneath the surface-level hatred. I should’ve. It was the intellectual equivalent of leaving a safe full of diamonds because the lock looked dusty.

Now I paid attention. I slipped into the microcracks she tried to plaster over with that flawless scowl of hers. The infinitesimal pauses. The tells she probably didn’t even know she had. And the truth hit me with the quiet force of a confession whispered into your neck.

Lea never hated me. Not for a second.

The hatred was armor. Handmade, polished daily, worn with militant precision. A fortress of barbed wire and vocabulary designed to protect something too fragile for daylight.

I caught it in the split-second fracture of her expression whenever her gaze drifted across the courtyard and accidentally collided with Sofia’s. Sofia, the ex-friend. Sofia, the girl who’d been the first to stand at my side. That look wasn’t hate. It was betrayal shaped into a mask she was trying not to choke on.

The “man whore” speeches? The cafeteria ambushes? Not disgust. Wounded fury.

The kind that comes from a girl who’d loved you quietly for years, only to watch you reinvent yourself into something she didn’t recognize, something she assumed you chose over her. In her eyes, I’d thrown away the quiet, brilliant boy she adored and traded him for something flashier, cheaper, hollow.

She thought I’d downgraded. And it cracked her open in ways she refused to admit even to herself.

Once I finally let myself look at her—actually look—all the pieces rearranged themselves into a single, blinding revelation:

Lea Martinez was a top-shelf, high-grade, industrial-strength Tsundere.

A Tsundere to end all Tsunderes.

A goddamn Tsundere!!!

The diagnosis snapped everything into alignment. Anonymous help, public insults, red-faced denials, emotional whiplash sharp enough to slice your thumb open—an entire symphony of contradiction. Beautiful, chaotic, involuntary. And I decided it was time to stop being her audience and start being the one standing at the podium.

Dating her wasn’t the plan. Fucking her wasn’t even the footnote. Step one was simply to talk to her. Get her alone. Strip away the buffering layer of spectators and clash-rituals and catch the real Lea, the one who kept slipping out at the seams. I needed to dissect the dynamic, not dance to it.

But while Lea was busy unraveling in the most indirect, academically tortured way imaginable, another storm was kicking down doors with far less subtlety.

Kayla.

If Lea was a controlled burn, Kayla was spontaneous combustion. Lea left anonymous algorithms under my windshield wiper; Kayla offered to show me her piercing backstage before a school assembly. Lea insulted me across a room; Kayla “accidentally” grazed her fingers over my crotch in the coffee line like we were in a music video and the director yelled “Again, with feeling.”

Kayla did not believe in half-measures. Her pursuit was a blitzkrieg of boldness and heat.

But every wildfire eventually runs into someone who knows how to hold a hose.

Every pyromaniac, there’s a firefighter.

Sarah became her shadow. Not assigned by ARIA. Not requested by me. She took the job the way a paladin takes an oath. With zeal, precision, and disturbingly effective enthusiasm.

Their war reached its holy, ridiculous crescendo on a Wednesday afternoon.

I walked into the boys’ bathroom near the gym. And there she was.

Kayla. As if she’d spawned there from pure confidence. Leaning against the sink like the mirror itself had conjured her for atmosphere. Hip cocked, smile slow and lethal. A skirt so short it was auditioning for the role of “fabric that technically exists.”

“Looking for me, Carter?” she purred, peeling off the sink and sauntering forward.

“Not particularly,” I said while leaning into the doorframe, letting the moment hang. “But here you are.”

“I am,” she said while closing the distance until she was basically breathing my air like it was a limited-edition perfume drop. She smelled like danger wrapped in money, the kind of scent rich girls weaponize when they don’t have actual superpowers.

“And I was thinking… the locker room is so cliché. So public. But this…” She dragged her finger down my chest like she was about to sign her name on me. “This is private. And I’ve been very, very patient.”

Her hand drifted lower with the moral restraint of a drunk billionaire on Instagram Live.

And of course that’s when the bathroom door flew open like the universe said; Nah, not today, Satan.

Sarah walked in. No hesitation. No embarrassment. No ‘oops wrong door’. She strolled in with the energy of someone who reports directly to God and HR at the same time.

“Really, Kayla?” Sarah said, voice dripping with the kind of bored disdain influencers use when talking about their failed merch lines. “Lurking in the men’s room? Your standards are free-falling. I’d expect this from a desperate freshman whose personality is ‘Snapchat streaks,’ not you.”

Kayla’s face tightened, eyes flashing with the fury of someone who just got ratioed on TikTok in real time. “This doesn’t concern you, Sarah.”

“See, that’s where you’re tragically wrong,” Sarah said while stepping between us like she was sliding into her natural habitat. Perfect human wall. Back to me, eyes locked on Kayla like a sniper with a moral agenda. “Peter’s time is booked. And ‘getting groped in a bathroom by a girl who thinks subtlety is a Pokémon evolution’ is not on the schedule.”

She gave Kayla a slow, surgical up-and-down. “Now unless you want me to start a rumor about you having an untreated STI—and yes, I already have a beautifully formatted Google doc with citations—I suggest you go reapply your lip gloss and re-evaluate your entire brand.”

Kayla froze. Not defeated—just momentarily stunned like a villain hit with an emotional flashbang. Then she shot me a glare over Sarah’s shoulder that translated perfectly to This isn’t over, flipped her hair like a weaponized period at the end of a sentence, and stormed out.

Sarah turned to me, the battle-mode expression melting instantly. “You okay?” she asked, like she’d just tackled a live bear to protect me.

“I’m fine,” I said while actually laughing. “You, My Love, are a national treasure. Like the movie. Chaotic, shiny, and constantly saving dumb people from disaster.”

“Just looking out for MY MAN,” she said with a shrug, then followed Kayla out, presumably to continue the proxy war.

And that’s when it hit me.

I couldn’t treat these girls like isolated quests. This wasn’t solo missions. This was an ecosystem. An entire political landscape of lust, jealousy, power, and emotional thermonuclear chaos. And I wanted to see what happened when I threw a grenade into it.

Later that night, I sent two texts.

To Lea: Lumière. 8 PM tomorrow. We need to talk.

To Kayla: Lumière. 8 PM tomorrow. Wear something nice.

Lea replied a minute later: I have prior commitments that involve washing my hair. And reorganizing my sock drawer. Preferably forever. Anything to avoid you. Leave me out of this.

Kayla’s response was instant: See you there. 😉

Perfect.

Two women.

One table.

And me, sauntering straight into the cyclone they didn’t even know they were co-authoring.

Yeah.

I couldn’t fucking wait.

****

This ends the flashback where the date came from.