Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 585

Chapter 585: Liberation Holdings Revealed
The rotunda went dead.

Eight-hundred-fifty million dollars just hanging there like a guillotine blade nobody wanted to look up at. Screens frozen on that obscene white number, throwing ghost-light across a thousand faces that suddenly forgot how to blink.

I let the silence cook. Delicious.

Valentina tried to pull herself together at the podium, scarlet silk stuck to her like she’d run a marathon in a sauna.

Amanda hadn’t moved. Paddle still raised like Excalibur. Midnight velvet painted on, pulse hammering at her throat so hard I could count the beats from twenty rows back. She looked drunk on it. Victory. Attention. Me.

Her chest lifted, slow, deliberate, savoring every pair of eyes that had just watched her rewrite the food chain. Then she turned.

Found me.

Everything else in the room blurred out like cheap bokeh.

The second our eyes locked, her body remembered who it belonged to. Breath snagged. A full-body shiver started somewhere deep and rolled outward, vertebrae cracking into perfect alignment like someone yanked an invisible string. Shoulders rolled back, tits up, chin high; instant posture upgrade courtesy of one lazy glance from her god.

Her lips parted, curved into something too holy to be called a smile. Tears welled up, fat and perfect, sliding down flushed cheeks like liquid diamonds. Not sad. Never sad. Just pure, uncut worship leaking out because the body doesn’t know how else to process transcendence.

Eight-hundred-fifty million dollars, and the only thing that mattered was whether I was proud.

She knew I was.

The paddle slipped from her fingers, cracked against marble like a starter pistol. Nobody flinched. Nobody could look away from the girl glowing like she’d swallowed a fucking star.

“For you,” she breathed. Two words. Barely sound. Hit me harder than any scream could.

I let the smile come slow, the one that says good girl, the one that says I’ll ruin you later for this, the one that says the moon’s already mine and you just bought me another continent.

I took her hand. Just fingertips. Barely contact.

Still detonated her. Pupils blew wide, breath stuttered, soft little worshipful gasp slipping out before she could stop it. Tears kept falling, but the smile got brighter, blinding, like she was mainlining divinity straight from my palm.

Valentina cleared her throat, trying to wrestle the moment back. “Miss Wells, would you join me at the rostrum?”

Amanda looked at me first. Always first.

I gave her the nod. Go flex, baby. Show them what obedient looks like when it costs nine figures. She walked. Velvet whispering threats with every step. Room held its breath like a collective lung. Took the stage. Owned it before her heel even settled.

Valentina fed her the softball. “Congratulations on your extraordinary acquisition.”

Polite golf-clap ripple.

Amanda smiled like a cat that just knocked the Ming vase off the shelf and watched it shatter in slow-mo. “Thank you. Though I’m not here for myself. I merely represent Liberation Holdings.”

You could hear bank accounts unzipping.

Valentina blinked. “Liberation… Holdings? I’m not familiar—”

“Yeah, we’re new.” Amanda’s tone said that was their problem, not hers.

The room leaned in so hard I swear the floor tilted.

She let them stew for one perfect heartbeat.

Valentina recovered quickly. “Well then, everyone here is dying to know—you arrived as an unknown player representing an unknown firm, and just outbid some of the most powerful names for eight hundred and fifty million. Who exactly is Liberation Holdings?”

The room leaned forward collectively. Amanda’s smile widened. This was the moment.

“Liberation Holdings is a private equity firm headquartered in Los Angeles. But calling us just private equity would be like calling the Manhattan Project just a science experiment.” Nervous laughs rippled.

“We focus on strategic acquisitions across luxury hospitality, commercial real estate, cutting-edge technology, advanced manufacturing, emerging markets. But more importantly, we focus on transformation. We don’t just buy companies—we revolutionize them.”

She paused. “Our philosophy: identify undervalued assets, inject capital and innovation, multiply their value by factors of ten or more. The Celestial Grand is beautiful, historic, prestigious. But in five years? Crown jewel of a global luxury hotel empire making the Montclair legacy that started it synonymous with excellence on every continent.”

Elise and Theo exchanged glances, eyes shining.

“And Liberation Funds—our hedge fund division—manages portfolios for carefully curated elite clients. Minimum buy-in: fifty million dollars. And we’re selective.” Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The conference room air grew thick with something heavier than humidity—raw, predatory hunger. Two hundred powerful investors sat in $3,000 chairs, their collective net worth enough to destabilize continents, and they were leaning.

“Current clients include Quantum Tech,” Amanda said, her voice slicing through the murmurs like a wire through clay. “We manage their entire financial strategy. Their recent valuation surge from eight to twelve billion? That was us. Our algorithms, our market analysis, our execution.”

A hedge fund manager in the second row—someone who’d built his career on microsecond advantages—let out a sound like he’d been gut-punched. The woman beside him actually stood, then sat back down, her knees giving out.

“We also manage funds for Torres Developments,” Amanda continued, each syllable a scalpel. “Two percent of their total portfolio.”

The lie hung in the air, pristine and lethal we only had 1%. Two percent of Torress was like ten billion. In this room, it tasted like ten billion. I could see them calculating, their eyes flickering with numbers, their throats working silently as they swallowed the impossibility of it.

Amanda didn’t pause. “We hold significant equity positions. Morrison Constructions—fifteen percent. Delgado Construction—eight percent, some of Mercy General Hospital.”

Each name landed like a neutron bomb: all impact, no flash. Legitimacy detonating in their faces.

Amanda let the silence stretch until it became a physical pressure against their eardrums. Then: “But here’s what makes Liberation Funds unique: Most hedge funds consider five to seven percent annual returns successful. Exceptional ones hit twelve to fifteen percent yearly. The absolute best might hit twenty percent if incredibly skilled and lucky.”

She paused. The room held its breath.

“Liberation Funds guarantees clients minimum five percent return within the first twenty-four hours of investment.”

The explosion wasn’t sound. It was a detonation of pure disbelief, a physical wave that knocked two glasses off tables. Shouts collided with each other, became white noise. A man in the back actually grabbed his chest, his face purpling. Someone else was laughing, a high-pitched hysterical sound that cut off abruptly when Amanda’s gaze found them.

“Five percent daily?” The voice came from an oil magnate whose hands were shaking so violently his diamond pinkie ring clattered against his wedding band. “Impossible!”

“Unprecedented,” Amanda finished smoothly, raising one perfect eyebrow. “Yes. It is. And yet, here we are. Our fee structure: only two percent of returns we generate. Nothing up front. If we don’t make you money, we don’t get paid.”

Elise Montclair rose like a ghost summoned from a grave. Her voice trembled with something that might have been terror or might have been the first thread of madness. “That’s—even the best algorithmic systems can’t—”

“Can’t?” Amanda’s smile was almost pitying, the way you’d pity a child who’d never seen the ocean. “The best systems you’re familiar with operate with technology from five, ten, fifteen years ago. Major firms use strategies from the 1980s refined in the 2018s. Sophisticated, certainly, but fundamentally limited.”

She let them sit with that. Let them feel the walls of their expertise closing in. Then she dropped the final weight: “Liberation Funds doesn’t operate under those constraints. We have computational power, analytical algorithms, market prediction models a decade ahead of anything else. Our AI doesn’t just analyze markets—it predicts them with prescient accuracy. Execution speed isn’t milliseconds—it’s microseconds. By the time other traders see opportunity, we’ve exploited it and moved on.”

“That’s essentially a license to print money,” someone called. The voice was ragged, desperate.

Amanda laughed—genuinely, like they’d just told a joke she actually found funny. “Yes. Exactly what it is.”

Elise approached the dais. Each step was careful, precise, the walk of a woman crossing a minefield. Her face was the color of old parchment. “I run one of Europe’s largest private banks. If you’re managing portfolios of this magnitude—how have you remained completely unknown?”