Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 583

Chapter 583: The War Begins 2
The number burned across the 8K screens, white-gold against a midnight field, arrogant and pristine.

A beat.

Another.

Then—first blood.

Khalid Al-Fahd lifted his paddle. Dove-gray thobe crisp, expression saintly, ego humming beneath the surface. He didn’t bother speaking. His wallet did.

“Six hundred million to Mr. Al-Fahd.”

Valentina’s smile cut clean, surgical.

“Do I hear six-ten?”

A second paddle rose. The London partner. Pearls catching light like they were begging to be worshipped.

“Six hundred and ten million.”

The number shifted onscreen, smooth as a vein opening.

The room leaned in. Shoulders squared. Breathing deepened. The real game flexed its knuckles.

Valentina pivoted, scanning the battlefield.

“Six-ten from London. Six-twenty?”

Hiroshi Tanaka’s aide raised his paddle. No theatrics. No breath. Just that quiet, lethal rhythm old money uses when it’s about to break someone’s spine politely.

“Six-twenty to Tanaka Holdings.”

$620,000,000.

Rafael Silva flashed a grin cinematic enough to trend on Brazilian TikTok. Gold lamé glittered like he’d dressed for his own coronation. Paddle up.

“Six hundred and thirty million.”

$630,000,000.

The rhythm quickened, pulse syncing with the chandelier’s trembling light.

Sheikh Omar bin Rashid lifted his paddle with surgeon precision.

“Six-forty.”

$640,000,000.

Then Victor Hale—chalk-stripes, predator calm, jaw wired with ambition.

“Six-fifty.”

$650,000,000.

Each new number slammed onto the screens like a living heartbeat. The chandelier practically hummed, crystals vibrating high enough to tighten molars.

Valentina rode the rising tempo, voice gleaming.

“Six-fifty. Do I hear six-sixty?”

The Battle Intensifies

The rotunda felt like lungs held too long. Tension crackled, humming through velvet, marble, and skin. Every pair of eyes locked on paddles, screens, the scarlet figure at the rostrum.

My Lust Presence spread wider, slower, darker. A velvet fog. Desire and aggression fusing under the ribs of the room’s elite. Pulse spikes. Flushed cheeks. Shallow breaths. A thousand micro-confessions blooming under their skin.

Valentina steadied herself on the rostrum, knuckles whitening just a hair.

“Six-fifty going once…”

A paddle snapped up—Scandinavian fund manager, blonde hair plastered slightly with sweat, resolve carved on her face.

“Six hundred and sixty million.”

$660,000,000.

Gasps rippled through velvet rows. The screens pulsed brighter, like the number itself inhaled.

“Six-sixty to Scandinavia. Do I hear six-seventy?”

The Singapore rep rose, silk tie unnervingly perfect, voice clipped and controlled.

“Six-seventy.”

$670,000,000.

The chandelier’s song sharpened, glass almost buzzing with the tension. Bidders recalculated futures in real time.

“Six-seventy. Six-eighty?” Valentina called.

Silence thickened. Heavy as a throat swallowing regret.

Then—

Edward Sterling raised his paddle.

Navy wool immaculate. Silver hair arranged like it was afraid to disappoint him. But his jaw was tight, eyes too sharp.

“Six hundred and eighty million.”

$680,000,000.

There he is.

The man who spat on my mother’s name. The man who tried to take my sisters like they were assets.

And he still had no idea I’d slipped into his company’s veins like poison wearing linen.

Whispers swarmed. Sterling entering meant tectonic plates had shifted. Luxury hospitality royalty had spoken.

Valentina dipped her chin, acknowledging the titan.

“Six-eighty to Mr. Sterling of Sterling Hotels.” Men tugged collars like the temperature had climbed ten degrees.

Madison’s fingers brushed mine beneath the armrest. A quick squeeze. Translation: He thinks this is his playground.

“Do I hear six-ninety?” Valentina’s voice sharpened, excitement unwinding through it.

Khalid Al-Fahd lifted his paddle again, thobe damp now, but gaze still sharp.

“Seven hundred million.”

$700,000,000.

The screens erupted into brilliant white, the number glowing like a myth. Seven hundred. Million.

History inked itself in real time.

“Seven hundred million,” Valentina echoed. “Do I hear seven-ten?”

Tanaka’s aide raised his paddle with surgical minimalism.

“Seven-ten.”

$710,000,000.

The atmosphere thickened—cologne, sweat, adrenaline—a perfume of ambition burning in the rotunda’s throat.

Sterling stared at the screens. His brother leaned in, whispering fast, numbers and consequences slashing behind his eyes. He was calculating the edge. The pain point. The point where this stopped being strategy and turned into stupidity.

He was realizing this was spiraling out of his architecture.

Good.

Valentina gripped the rostrum, scarlet silk hugging her frame, diamonds winking like tiny blades. “Seven-ten to Tanaka Holdings,” she announced. “Going once…”

Amanda leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something wickedly bright.

The war was roaring now.

And we hadn’t even stepped onto the battlefield yet.

The rotunda hung in suspended electric tension. Air thick with the sharp perfume of wealth, nervous sweat, and anticipation so dense it tasted metallic on the tongue. Screens blazed at $746,000,000, digits pulsing like a heartbeat through the silent, waiting crowd.

Valentina gripped the rostrum, scarlet silk clinging to every curve, breath shallow, fast. Her voice, taut but professional, cut the stillness.

“Seven-forty-six… going—”

Amanda surged.

A sudden movement. Silence snapped like glass. Chair scraped across marble, sharp. Midnight velvet hugged her skin as she rose, fabric shifting, clinging, alive. Pulse throbbed at her throat. Pupils wide. My aura brushed hers, feeding strength, amplifying confidence, sharpening intent.

Her paddle shot up, grip fierce, wood creaking under pressure. Voice rang, cutting the thick tension like a knife.

“SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY MILLION!”

$790,000,000.

There she was. Right there. Amanda, claiming her spotlight. The runaway bride, escaping Harold’s mediocrity. Now she owned an $850 million hotel. And every elite here would remember her name.

Screens flared white, then settled. Crystals in the chandelier vibrated, high, crystalline note lingering in the air, electric.

Gasps, whispers. Shock, awe, envy.

Al-Fahd’s hand trembled as paddle dropped, defeat etched across his face. Tanaka’s aide dropped his pen. Clatter rang loud in the sudden hush. Silva froze, mouth open, confidence shattered. Omar shifted, realizing the depth of miscalculation. Hale leaned back, jaw working, calculating whether to throw the next bid.

Valentina gripped the podium tighter, breath ragged. My Lust Presence and the audacity of Amanda’s move had left her momentarily undone.

We stayed still. Madison. Me. Untouched. Watching.

Amanda alone. Paddle high. Eyes blazing. Triumph incarnate.

Let them see what Liberation Holdings can do. Let them understand the woman standing there just became one of the most powerful players in luxury hospitality.

And they still didn’t know the real source of the power behind her.

The stakes had gone nuclear.

Screens glared at $790,000,000, digits unforgiving, cold.

Valentina straightened, red silk molding to her form, breathing steadying, composure thin but visible. My Lust Presence hummed beneath the surface, subtle, insidious, keeping every heartbeat sharp, every eye aware.

Her voice came, smooth, controlled, strained just enough to let the room know stakes were climbing.

“Seven-ninety… going once…”

A long, pregnant silence stretched, holding the rotunda captive.

Then Tanaka’s paddle rose. Steady, precise, fingers trembling beneath the cloth of charcoal linen damp with sweat. Voice clean, cold, cutting through the tension.