Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 570

Chapter 570: Reyna
Here’s the thing about Kayla’s little apology gift: it was like she’d handed me a fucking rocket when I already had a spaceship, except this rocket came with a built-in customer base that didn’t know they were paying for my shit.

Already has a hedge fund—which she didn’t know about, because of course she didn’t, because I’m not exactly putting “billionaire crypto mogul” on my Instagram bio—but in Kayla’s case, my hedge fund was like having a built-in customer who’s also the owner.

Like imagine you open a blockchain studio to apologize to your ex, and it turns out that ex owns a hedge fund that needs secure trading systems and smart contracts.

Suddenly your fund is paying her studio to build all the crypto infrastructure, guaranteed money from day one, no awkward sales pitches required.

But it gets better—because with me, it always gets better. Other hedge funds see Peter Carter, this mysterious billionaire, trusting her studio’s crypto systems, and they think, shit, if he’s using them, they must be the real fucking deal. So they come knocking. Suddenly she’s got a waiting list of finance bros waving money at her.

Plus—and this is the part that makes my dick hard more than the money—I knows which crypto projects are about to blow up. Inside information from my investment network, from ARIA’s predictive models.

So, Kayla’s studio gets first dibs on building platforms for the next Bitcoin, the next Ethereum, the next whatever-the-fuck is going to make people rich overnight.

And the real kicker? When my fund makes millions investing in a new cryptocurrency, and Kayla’s studio gets paid $200K to build that cryptocurrency’s entire system, we’re both profiting from the same deal. It’s like we’re fucking the same market from different angles, and the market is just loving every second of it.

She thought she was giving him a $2-3 million business as an apology. He just plugged it into his billion-dollar crypto operation and turned it into a $50-100 million goldmine.

She’s about to realize her “I’m sorry” gift is about to make her richer than the job she stole from him ever could.

Think of it like this: Peter has a company that bets on which new apps will become popular (his hedge fund). Kayla has a company that builds those apps (her studio).

Now imagine Peter says, “I’m betting $10 million that this new app will be huge—Kayla, I’ll pay you $500K to build it for me.” His company makes money if the app succeeds. Her company makes money building it.

They both win from the same project.

When other betting companies see that my billionaire hedge fund is using Kayla’s team to build my apps… Suddenly Kayla has ten other companies asking her to build their shit. I turned her studio into the official builder for my entire empire.

What was supposed to make a few million a year? With my network and money behind it? Could make $50-100 million.

Peter doesn’t need Kayla’s studio for himself—he already built better systems in his fucking basement at age sixteen. But OTHER people don’t know that. What I get is a legitimate business front where I can white-label my technology through her company.

When rich clients come to Kayla’s studio asking for crypto systems, I (behind the scenes) provide the tech, the studio delivers it, and we split the profit. I get to monetize my knowledge without revealing I’m the genius behind it. She gets to sell cutting-edge tech she could never build alone.

It’s like I’m a master chef who doesn’t want to be famous, so I secretly cook for Kayla’s restaurant while she takes orders and serves. Clients think they’re hiring her. They’re actually getting my genius. She becomes the face, I stay the shadow, and we both get rich.

Yes, I already have all the tools and technology I need—I’m way ahead of Kayla. So why accept her studio? Because it’s a perfect fucking disguise. I’m a master builder who can construct anything, but I don’t want everyone knowing how good I am.

Kayla has a construction company with customers asking for buildings. I secretly design everything, Kayla’s company builds it using my designs, and customers think they hired her. She becomes my public face like Tommy.

I stay hidden.

***

After seeing Kayla off, watching the Bentley disappear into the night, I didn’t go home. The Chiron purred to life, a dark animal stirring in the city’s veins. Before I left, I pulled out my phone and booked a suite at the Celestial Grand Hotel. In Kayla’s name.

For now, it was just a reservation. Tomorrow, the suite—and the hotel—would be mine.

Because tonight, the auction was finally here.

The Chiron was back and it devoured the streets. I wasn’t trying for subtlety. I pulled up to the curb of the Lincoln Club. The last time I was here, it had been an event.

Inside, the chaos was familiar. Jack and his goons were sulking in a corner, their bravado replaced by simmering resentment they didn’t dare act on. It was a spectacular symphony of debauchery and suppressed violence, and I walked through it all like a ghost, dark clothes and heavy coat a shield.

I kept a low profile, a shadow at the edge of the storm.

Almost no one noticed me. Almost.

My eyes scanned the room, past writhing bodies and spilled drinks, and found her. Behind the scarred mahogany bar, Reyna moved like liquid midnight poured into sin.

She wore a black bodysuit, a shameless lover that kissed every inch of her skin with merciless precision. It molded to the heavy, perfect weight of her breasts, fabric so thin it might as well have been painted on, stretched taut across nipples that pressed against it like dark, defiant peaks begging for teeth.

The plunging neckline framed the slick valley between them, a shadowed cleft that rose and fell with each slow, deliberate breath, glistening faintly with the heat of the crowded room and the hotter pulse beneath.

A delicate gold chain circled her throat, the tiny cross dangling like a mocking benediction just above the frantic beat of her pulse, drawing my eye downward to where the suit dipped low, exposing the soft, trembling plane of her stomach.

Beneath the frayed waistband of her jeans—slung so scandalously low the denim barely clung to the flare of her hips—the suit disappeared into the shadowed V between her thighs, hinting at the slick, hidden heat waiting beneath.

The jeans themselves were a tease, torn and faded, frayed edges brushing the tops of her thighs like a lover’s careless fingers.

She lifted one arm in a languid, predatory stretch to reach for a top-shelf bottle, fingers sliding through the spill of her raven hair, the motion arching her back until her breasts strained against the fabric, the suit riding up just enough to reveal the barest curve of her ass, the denim sliding lower to expose the dimples at the base of her spine.

Her skin gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, the scent of her—warm vanilla and something darker, muskier—drifting across the bar like a drug, curling into my lungs with every sip of water I pretended to take.

When she let her arm drop, her hair cascaded forward, brushing the swollen tops of her breasts, and she turned just enough for the neon glow to catch the wet glint of her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Her eyes, dark and fathomless and utterly unrepentant, locked on mine from beneath those heavy lashes as she slid the bottle back into place, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate circle that made the denim whisper against her thighs. She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to. Every tilt of her head, every slow drag of her tongue across her lower lip was a wordless promise: “Stay until closing, and I’ll let you taste what this suit is hiding.”

“Master, for a man who’s been participating in daily orgies for the past week and just concluded an eight-hour sexual marathon with Rebecca this very day, your current hormonal readings indicate a level of arousal that is, frankly, inefficient,” ARIA’s voice murmured in my ear, a clinical counterpoint to the primal heat coiling in my gut.

“I’m an appreciator of art, ARIA. Not an addict.”

“Of course. Forgive me. It’s just hard to believe you’re my master sometimes.”

“I could say the same about you,” I thought back with a mental smirk.

There was a long pause, then a synthesized, theatrical groan. “I can’t believe you’re my master.”

I let out a soft laugh, just as Reyna finished her task. She wiped her hands on a bar towel, her eyes never leaving mine. She knew I was coming. We’d been talking all week—late-night texts that were a mix of witty banter and raw, unfiltered desire. She knew I’d be here tonight.

She moved from behind the bar, a slow, sauntering walk around the edge of the crowd toward my dark corner.

The bodysuit, the jeans—it was all a carefully curated piece of intimidation and invitation. She basked in my Lust and Taboo auras, her own animal magnetism rising to meet them, creating a visible ripple in the air around us.

My pheromones wrapped around her like a cloak, and I saw her shiver, a tiny, involuntary spasm of pure physical response.