Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 587

Chapter 587: The Elite’s New Queens
The Celestial Grand’s ballroom at eight PM looked like someone had kidnapped every billionaire in LA and forced them into formal wear at gunpoint.

Except no one had forced them. They’d begged for invitations.

Twenty-thousand square feet of marble floors, crystal chandeliers the size of small cars, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

Black-tie didn’t begin to describe it. This was elite black-tie—where jewelry wasn’t measured in thousands but in bloodline heritage, where everyone’s watch could fund a small country’s GDP.

I stood in the shadows near the east wall, positioned between two marble columns that framed one of the massive windows. The city sprawled below like a circuit board, lights bleeding into smog and darkness. My position gave me clear sight lines across the entire ballroom while keeping me functionally invisible.

That was intentional.

Tonight wasn’t about me.

Tonight was about watching Madison and Amanda work.

They stood near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by a rotating court of elites like planets with their own gravitational pull.

Madison wore midnight blue—not quite black, but close enough to suggest danger. The gown was Valentino, custom-tailored to hug every curve before flowing into a train that whispered across marble like a threat. Diamonds at her throat and wrists, hair swept up to expose her neck.

She looked like old money and new violence had a baby and that baby grew up to buy countries for fun.

Amanda’s emerald green—deep, rich, the kind of green that made you think of poison and luxury simultaneously.

The dress had a plunging neckline that stopped just short of scandalous, held in place by geometry and prayer. Her hair fell in waves over one shoulder, platinum catching the chandelier light.

She looked like a woman who’d just spent $850 million and might do it again before midnight for the hell of it.

They weren’t just beautiful.

They were powerful.

And every person in that ballroom felt it.

“Miss. Torres, Miss Wells,” a voice purred—Elise Montclair, approaching with two others in tow. Silver gown that probably cost six figures, diamonds that definitely cost seven.

“I’d like to introduce you to some colleagues. This is Victoria Hale, managing director of Hale Capital, and Simone Zhao, CEO of Zhao Holdings.”

Victoria was mid-thirties, British or European based on the accent, built like someone who’d survived financial crashes and came out richer. Simone was younger—maybe forty—with the kind of sharp elegance that said she’d clawed her way to the top and left bodies behind.

Madison’s smile was warm but controlled. “Ms. Hale, Ms. Zhao. A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Victoria said, her English carrying Oxbridge polish. “We’ve witnessed remarkable things about Liberation Funds. Elise has been quite… enthusiastic in her want to join.”

“Enthusiastic is underselling it,” Simone added, her voice carrying that particular Valley-meets-Wall-Street cadence. “She told me three times in the past minutes. Three. Elise Montclair does not make three statements about anything unless it’s either catastrophically important or incredibly lucrative.”

“Both, in this case,” Elise admitted with a laugh that sounded expensive. “I don’t think I’ve thought of anything else since the auction ended. My mind keeps running calculations.”

Amanda’s smile widened—the kind that promised secrets and bank vaults in equal measure. “And what calculations would those be?”

“How quickly I can liquidate certain assets to meet Liberation Funds’ minimum investment threshold,” Elise said bluntly, all European banking discretion evaporating in the face of five percent daily returns. “One hundred million dollars is significant, but not impossible for someone with diversified holdings. The question is whether I can move that capital without tanking my other positions.”

“A common concern,” Madison said smoothly, her voice carrying that particular Torres family authority—generations of real estate empire compressed into two words. “Though I should clarify—the hundred million minimum is for institutional investors and high-net-worth individuals seeking standard client status. There are other tiers.”

The group leaned in fractionally.

Unconscious.

Hungry.

Like sharks smelling blood three miles out.

“Other tiers?” Victoria asked

“Liberation Funds operates on a platinum-gold-silver structure,” Amanda explained, her tone suggesting this should be obvious to anyone who’d done their homework. “Silver Tier starts at one hundred million—standard access, five percent guaranteed first-day returns, two percent fund fee, priority support. Gold Tier starts at five hundred million—everything in silver plus priority allocation for high-yield opportunities, quarterly performance reviews with executive team, access to QT-7 technology.”

Simone’s eyes widened. “The holographic watch.”

“Among other things,” Madison confirmed, diamonds catching light as she gestured elegantly. “Platinum Tier starts at two billion—”

“Two billion?” Victoria interrupted, her composure cracking like London ice in spring.

“—and includes everything in gold tier plus direct partnership with Liberation Holdings’ strategic acquisitions team, first-right-of-refusal on major property deals, and custom AI-driven portfolio management with dedicated quantum processing allocation. Atop that is a meeting with our boss themself!”

The silence that followed was the kind that happens when someone casually mentions numbers so large they stop feeling real and start feeling like geological time scales.

“Two billion dollars,” Simone repeated slowly, her Wall Street brain clearly running the math, “for platinum tier access.”

“Minimum,” Madison corrected gently, like she was discussing the price of a decent bottle of wine rather than the GDP of a small island nation. “Though for sovereign wealth funds or government investment vehicles, we’re open to discussing custom arrangements that can go considerably higher.”

From my position in the shadows, I watched their faces process that information. The calculation happening behind expensive eyewear and Botox. Two billion minimum. And she’d had delivered it with the casual confidence of someone who’d turned down that much before breakfast.

“Currently, we have three platinum clients,” Amanda continued, emerald dress shifting as she commanded space like she’d been born to it. “Quantum Tech, Torres Developments and one private individuals who prefers to remain anonymous.”

That was technically true. The “private individuals” was me, though Liberation Holdings’ corporate structure made that relationship invisible to outside observers.

“And gold tier?” Elise asked, her voice tight with banker’s hunger. “How many gold clients?”

“We’re capped at seventeen,” Madison replied. “With thirteen slots reserved for strategic partnerships we’re evaluating.”

More silence.

Liberation Funds, three weeks old, was managing north of twenty billion dollars.

And generating five percent returns. Daily.

No fucking wonder they looked like they’d been hit by trucks wrapped in hundred-dollar bills.

“I must ask,” Victoria started, then stopped. Cleared her throat like she’d swallowed her British pride whole. “These returns. Five percent daily. That’s mathematically extraordinary. Most funds consider themselves successful with ten percent annually. You’re promising—what, eighteen hundred percent annually?”

“More, actually,” Amanda corrected gently, like she was explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow child. “Five percent daily compounds. Assuming two hundred and fifty trading days per year, the effective annual return is significantly higher. Though we don’t typically frame it that way because it sounds absurd.”

“It is absurd,” Simone said flatly, her Wall Street instincts finally kicking in beneath the hunger. “Which means either you’re running the most sophisticated Ponzi scheme in history, or you’ve genuinely developed trading algorithms that are decades ahead of anything else in existence.”

Madison’s smile sharpened into something that could cut glass and reputations. “Ms. Zhao, if we were running a Ponzi scheme, would we be capping our client intake at forty total slots? Wouldn’t we want to take as much money as possible from as many people as possible before the inevitable collapse? Also, does that Tech there look like something to use in schemes?”

Simone blinked. Paused. Her brain visibly recalculating. “That’s… a fair point.”

“We’re capped because our AI systems have operational limitations,” Amanda lied, her tone shifting to something almost educational. “—our primary trading intelligence—can currently process approximately a minimum of four hundred million in transactions daily while maintaining the precision needed for consistent five percent returns. As we expand our computational infrastructure, that cap will increase. But we’d rather maintain perfect performance for a smaller client base than compromise returns by overextending.”

“AI,” Victor repeated, testing the name like expensive wine. “That’s the AI system you mentioned during the auction?”

“Yes. It manages all our trading operations, market analysis, and portfolio optimization. The QT-7 devices you saw are essentially mobile interfaces for direct communication with that AI.”

“And it’s—what, quantum computing-based?”