Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 565

Chapter 565: Reason
By the time the last plates were cleared and the final drop of Sancerre had slipped down throats, neither girl was the same creature who had walked in. The air between them had molted. No more crackling hostility. Just a charged, unpredictable curiosity, like two scholars studying the same forbidden artifact and pretending they weren’t fascinated.

Lea stood slower than usual, flushed and glassy-eyed, the wine smoothing her razor-blade personality into something softer and far more dangerous. I shrugged into my jacket. She rose with me, a little too fluid, like gravity had become a polite suggestion.

Then her fingers—steady despite the alcohol—landed on my lapel with the precision of a surgeon who charged premium rates.

“You’re wrinkling it,” she muttered, voice unexpectedly soft, the sharp edges sanded into velvet. Her fingers passed over my chest, feather-light, lingering that extra fraction of a second that only meant trouble. “I can’t be seen leaving a place like this with someone who looks like they body-checked a laundry basket. Bad optics.”

I looked down at those fingers, resting just inches from my heartbeat. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“No,” she agreed, eyes fixed on fabric like she was avoiding the part of me she actually wanted to face. “The person I thought you were… he had potential. It would be a shame if he were seen as shabby.”

“And the person I am now?”

Her fingers froze mid-adjustment. The question landed between us, delicate but weighted like glass filled with mercury.

For a second, I thought she’d ignore it.

“He’s… more complicated,” she finally whispered. “And far more frustrating.”

Her gaze lifted, slow and reluctant, her eyes glossy with wine and something far more honest. “And yes. Fine. The part of me that wasted four years pining for an idiot is apparently too stubborn to die. Happy now? You live in my head rent-free even when I fantasize about changing the locks.”

As far as confessions went, that was a full Lea Martinez emotional striptease. The closest thing to an apology she’d ever allow herself without medical supervision.

Outside, the city air hit us, cool and electric. Lea’s heel caught on a cracked flagstone. She stumbled. I moved to steady her, but she grabbed my arm first, grip firm, ownership-level firm.

“I’m dizzy,” she said. The excuse was thinner than the wineglass she’d been clutching. “Don’t read into it. It’s just… ethanol.”

Sure. And Beyoncé is “just a singer.”

She leaned into my arm, hugging it like a lifeline. Her body pressed against mine, warm, exquisitely tense. I could feel every line of her: the taut waist, the delicate curve of her hip, the quiet strength she hid under cardigans and condescension. My hand moved to steady her at the waist, thumb brushing the soft skin just above her hipbone.

She inhaled sharply—a tiny, breathy sound she tried to smother with an exaggerated sigh.

“Just the wine,” she insisted weakly. “Makes your head spin.”

But I knew that sound. It was the sound of someone who’d built a fortress around themselves suddenly discovering a door they hadn’t meant to leave open.

Kayla walked beside us, a careful distance away, her silence its own commentary. Observing. Processing. Filing it all away like she was building a psychological dossier for later.

We reached the curb. The Chiron sat there like a chrome-black predator basking under neon lights. Kayla let out a low whistle.

“Of course,” she said. Not a question. Just acceptance. The puzzle pieces had clicked.

I opened the passenger door for Lea. She folded into the leather seat, head falling back, a princess undone by Pinot and feelings.

“ARIA,” I murmured, leaning in. “Take Martinez home. Scenic route. And play Debussy. She likes Debussy.”

“As you wish, Master,” ARIA whispered, her tone a silk-thread drawn across glass. It played in my ear and through the Chiron’s speakers, perfectly timed so Lea could hear it. Her eyes flickered open, confused for a fraction of a heartbeat, then resigned, like she suddenly remembered she lived in a world where things like that happened around me.

I leaned in to buckle her seatbelt. My arm brushed across her chest. She made another one of those tiny, involuntary sounds her pride immediately tried to overwrite with a long, theatrical exhale.

“Wine,” she muttered, eyelids heavy. “Still the wine.”

“Of course it is.”

I shut the door with a solid, sealing thud.

The Chiron woke with a purr—no, not a purr. A promise. It glided away from the curb like a creature too powerful to need noise. In seconds, the taillights dissolved into the city’s neon bloodstream.

Beside me, Kayla didn’t look jealous or threatened. She looked fascinated, the way a biologist looks at an organism that shouldn’t exist but very much does.

“You have a ghost driver,” she said.

“Something like that.”

Her smile warmed, sharpened. She jerked her chin toward a sapphire-blue shape waiting under a streetlamp.

“My turn.”

The Bentley Continental GT Convertible gleamed like wealth distilled into metal. Roof down. Paint dark as midnight seawater. Every line screamed curated luxury and curated chaos. It wasn’t a car; it was a proclamation.

She clicked the fob. The lights winked.

“After you.”

Inside, the Bentley was a cathedral of cream leather and chrome, drenched in her perfume—danger wrapped in citrus and something floral but proud. Kayla slid into the driver’s seat with feline certainty. The second the wheel was in her hands, the dynamic shifted. Not a competition.

A handoff of power between equals.

The engine started in a growl that felt handmade, expensive, intentional. Very Kayla.

We drifted into traffic, the wind clawing playfully at our hair. LA streaked past in a smear of gold, crimson, and late-night possibility.

We drove in companionable silence for a while. The kind that only exists between two people who know exactly what they’re doing.

“So,” I said, loud enough to rise above the wind. “You said you wanted to show me something.”

“I did.”

Her eyes stayed on the road. Her hands were steady on the wheel. She didn’t just control the car. She commanded it.

“Am I allowed to know where we’re going?”

That slow, dangerous smile tugged at her lips. “No. You’re going to trust me.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Kayla, last time I trusted you, you walked away with our life-changing work like it was a souvenir.”

She glanced at me, sobriety and honesty threading through her voice. “And I regret that. I regret it more than I’ve regretted anything. That was… old me. The girl who measured human beings in ROI.”

Her gaze returned to the road. “I’m trying to show you I can value things that aren’t transactional.”

The Bentley surged forward as she tilted us onto the highway, a predator stretching its legs. The city fell behind. The air grew colder. The hills rose around us like giant, silent witnesses.

“Is that the only reason?” I asked.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her expression softened into something rawer than regret. More vulnerable than pride. The wind rushed around us, loud and honest.

“No,” she said finally. “Not even close.”

The car hummed through a dark canyon curve.

“I wanted to see if the spark was still there.” Her voice dipped lower, more intimate. “And I wanted to know what it would feel like… having you in my car. Not yours. Not some AI-driven rocket ship. Mine.”