Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 582

Chapter 582: The Auction – Part 2: The War Begins
The five minutes lingered like they were trying to flex on the clock, dragging themselves out with the smug ease of an ’82 Lafite that knows you paid too much for it and still wants you to savor every molecule.

The whole room breathed in sync. Velvet chairs exhaled tiny, bougie sighs every time someone shifted. Whispers threaded the air in a dozen dialects, each one carrying its own flavor: Gulf Arabic rumbling like velvet thunder, Oxbridge chopping the air clean and cold, Portuguese rolling warm like sunlit sidewalks, Japanese slicing through the atmosphere with that quiet blade confidence. Laughter flickered in pockets, that billionaire-class kind you hear right before someone signs away a country or a marriage.

A waiter floated by, white gloves immaculate, tray loaded with blinis drowning in beluga. The Swiss heir snatched one without even breaking his conversation rhythm. Caviar cracked on his tongue like edible shrapnel while he murmured to the Dubai delegate about Monaco yacht berths and hull insurance. The air was half oud, half money.

Elise and Theo Montclair drifted through the aisles like the world’s politest two-person parade. Elise went first, chiffon whispering against marble with that soft, almost intimate hush, like fabric daring to flirt with gravity. Theo followed, steady and cedar-scented, the kind of calm that made you wonder if he kept extra kindness in his pockets for emergencies. They started from the back, weaving forward, heels clicking in perfect rhythm.

They reached the Saudi industrialist. Elise’s fingers grazed his sleeve: silk brushing linen, a small static spark like the room blinking awake.

“Khalid, you crossed half the world for us. This day shines because of you.”

Her smile warmed the air enough to make steel sweat. He bowed, speaking of legacies in a voice that vibrated the ribcages of anyone within three seats.

She laughed, bright and clean. Heads turned like she’d cast some royal-summon spell. Pearls clicked. Attention snapped.

Theo clasped the man’s hand, grip iron, knuckles pale.

“Helipad’s rated for your whole fleet, my friend.”

Al-Fahd’s answering boom rolled off the frescoes like thunder applauding itself.

They moved on.

The London partner got her pearl-polish treatment.

“Older stories than your cap tables.”

Her laugh fizzed like fresh champagne, sharp and showy. Elise spun some Bahrain story that practically made her pearls tremble. Theo nodded along, pride glowing under his collar like he had a halo powered by sibling affection and suppressed stress.

The Brazilian heir earned one part concern, one part chaos.

“Rafael, hope the jet didn’t shake you; we need you sharp.”

His grin was pure wolf, teeth blinding.

“Fully charged, Elise.”

His scent sliced through the truffle haze, citrus with a gunpowder edge. Theo added a soy-futures joke that hit well enough to pull real laughter, warm breaths simmering with Krug and caviar.

The Japanese chairman received a small bow. Elise’s awe wrapped every word.

“Your Tokyo towers redefine skylines.”

Her voice dropped soft and reverent. Theo name-dropped Osaka and the man thawed instantly, offering a rare, almost shy smile. Laughter drifted like delicate chimes.

The Hollywood wife’s emeralds triggered a breathless moment.

“They outshine your backlot stars.”

She cackled, throat smoky, emeralds dancing. Theo tossed out permit banter and the whole cluster bubbled like a freshly popped Dom.

Front row. Center. Me sitting dead-still. Madison on the left. Amanda on the right.

We didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just watched.

Perfume, oud, ambition, and eight figures of ego swirled together. The quartet’s final notes hovered like the room was holding its breath. My Lust Presence stretched quietly, a heat bloom under my skin, drifting out like invisible incense. Beneath it, the Taboo Aura pulsed, dark and addictive, tightening throats and loosening morals.

The London partner’s laugh stuttered, breaking in half. Her gaze snapped to me, pupils wide, pearls suddenly feeling like they weighed as much as her guilt.

The Brazilian heir’s wolf-grin froze mid-glare. Sweat cut through his expensive cologne, eyes glossing over, knees shifting under gold lamé like he’d forgotten how to sit.

The Hollywood wife’s emerald-cackle died flat. Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers pressing heated skin.

Even Elise hesitated mid-stride, chiffon clinging tighter than it should. A fracture in her smile. A shallow hitch in her breath.

Their praise and banter turned into background lobby jazz, meaningless static.

Elise’s eyes slid to Madison.

“Miss Torres, an honor.”

Madison’s nod could freeze champagne mid-fizz, crystal cracking like it recognized a higher authority. They drifted on.

She leaned into me, citrus and steel brushing the air, heat ghosting against my ear. My aura curled around her edges, testing, tasting, but she held her line like she’d trained for it.

“ARIA could spit this in seconds, but the oxygen’s heavier in here.”

She jerked her chin at the Saudi.

“Khalid Al-Fahd. Oil, ships, ego large enough to cast its own timezone. Fifteen bil liquid. Bought a Basquiat for his yacht bathroom just to match the damn cushions.”

Her voice dropped, velvet sharpened to a weapon.

Next target, the Japanese chairman.

“Hiroshi Tanaka. Tanaka Holdings. Tokyo to Singapore. Government in one pocket. Rumors about the other pocket are why half the SEC sleeps poorly. Bids like a ghost. Gone, then lethal.”

Brazilian.

“Rafael Silva. Sugar, iron, chaos incarnate. Wins big, detonates bigger. Here to flex on Instagram, not deliver an IRR.”

Dubai.

“Sheikh Omar bin Rashid. Sovereign wealth. Wallet deeper than the Marianas Trench, but hates overpaying unless it comes with delicious geopolitical drama.”

New York.

“Victor Hale. Hale Capital. Human shark. Wears chalk-stripes like warning labels. Smells blood even when the rest of us smell room service.”

Madison’s gaze swept the crowd, pupils blown wider, predator-calm settling across her face like a second skin.

“Eight hundred’s just the warmup. Whoever wins gets first dibs on joint ventures in Miami, New York, Vegas. Those three make this place look like a warm-up lap. The Montclairs aren’t selling a hotel. They’re selling a dynasty.”

I tracked the tells.

Al-Fahd’s thumb tapped his thigh, soft cannonfire, pulse hammering at his wrist, eyes flicking to me, throat tightening as if my presence had grabbed the reins.

Tanaka’s aide scribbled frantically, pen screeching like claws, ink blotting from a trembling hand. Silva tried to flirt with a socialite mid-breath, charm slipping, nerves baring themselves under his tan. His gaze snapped back to me, lips parting like he’d forgotten how to inhale.

Omar took a sip of water, posture pristine, but the glass quivered a fraction. Condensation beaded like his comp osure was melting.

Hale leaned in, pricing exits, plotting demolitions. His nostrils flared once before he locked onto me, jaw clamping down hard.

Madison tilted closer, breath hotter, whisper sinking under my skin.

“Money shouts. Strategy whispers. Your Sterling four percent? That’s a six-hundred-mil premium. This hotel props it. Montclair pipeline crowns it. Lose, Sterling laughs in your face. Win, and Liberation gets a throne.”

Then Amanda touched me.

Just one brush of fingers along my sleeve — warm, brief, dangerously electric. My aura surged. She shivered like she liked it.

“My name on the contract. When you’re the shadow, I’m the spotlight. Today carves that in stone.”

I said nothing.

Pulse calm. Ceiling fixed at 1.1 billion. No higher. I wasn’t here to drown. Surprise was my blade, and Sterling didn’t know he’d walked onto my board.

The pavane slipped to silence. The kind that settles over a room like falling silk, suffocating and intimate. Valentina returned, scarlet slicing through the air, smile honed to a weapon. Even she faltered, breath catching when my power brushed her.

“Time’s up, darlings. Paddles high. Hearts higher. Let the games begin.”

Her gavel hovered, hammered silver catching the chandelier’s fractured glow, slicing the rostrum in glittering shrapnel. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Celestial Grand Hotel. Opening bid: six hundred million dollars.”

The words hit the room like a dropped monolith. Waves of tension rolled outward, slow and seismic.

Six. Hundred. Million.