Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 607

Chapter 607: A Harem and High Tech
The G-Wagon growled to a halt before the skeletal silhouette of the Celestial Grand Hotel, soon to be reborn as Liberation Hotel. Floodlights carved harsh angles across half-finished steel, cranes frozen mid-lift like iron giants.

What had been a respectable 50-floor landmark was now a gutted shell, its core excavated for a planned 150-floor titan. Every room would become a 5-star suite; the top fifteen floors were earmarked for twenty presidential palaces and penthouses.

The footprint had already doubled—permits greased, bribes discreetly wired, agreements sealed in blood and ink.

The original three penthouses floated untouched in the middle of the expanding skeleton, suspended on temporary scaffolding like jewels in a crown under construction.

Tonight, the third penthouse—was empty and waiting.

I killed the engine. Reyna’s eyes reflected the chaos of steel and light, wide with awe that came from realizing the man who’d saved her from that alley owned this. Had told her I was taking her to my hotel.

“You bought this?” she whispered.

“Working on it,” I said, helping her out. She leaned into me, savoring the care. We crossed the construction gate, boots crunching on dust and rebar scattered like the bones of the old building.

The lobby was a war-zone of tarps and exposed wiring, yet the private elevator to the penthouses gleamed—polished brass, biometric lock that read my thumbprint and retinal scan simultaneously.

It whisked us upward in silence, opening into the third penthouse: a 6,000-square-foot oasis of velvet, marble, and panoramic glass untouched by the chaos below. Tonight, it smelled faintly of their perfume, expensive candles, and my ambition made manifest.

I dropped Reyna’s duffel by the master bedroom—king-sized bed with sheets that cost more than most people’s cars, bathroom with a tub carved from single block of marble. “Your castle for the night. Tomorrow, you decide if you want the estate. No rush.”

She kissed my jaw, soft and grateful. “Go handle Lincoln Heights. I’ll be here.”

I cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “ARIA’s monitoring everything. You need anything, just ask. She’ll take care of you.”

“I live to serve,” ARIA’s voice purred through the penthouse speakers, making Reyna jump slightly.

“Get used to it,” I said with a grin. “She’s everywhere.”

An hour later, the G-Wagon devoured the dark ribbon of highway out of the city, past the last neon sign, past the suburbs where normal people lived normal lives, until the forest swallowed the road whole.

The estate wasn’t in the city; it was a sovereign kingdom carved from wilderness, thirty miles of private road, we’d upgraded to biometric gates every five miles, and silence so thick you could hear your own pulse hammering in your ears.

The gates parted like theater curtains; the driveway curved through ancient redwoods that had been here before LA was even a concept, motion sensors bathing the path in soft gold that made the trees look like they were on fire.

I stepped inside. The air was cool, scented with cedar and ozone, the faint hum of unseen systems—climate control, security, AI processing—pulsing like a heartbeat.

Floors of polished basalt reflected the low glow of recessed LEDs; a single Rothko original hung in the foyer, its reds deeper than blood, because if you were going to be obscenely wealthy, you might as well have obscenely wealthy taste.

“Soo-Jin,” I called, voice echoing just enough to carry through the open spaces.

She materialized from the east wing like a sprite, silk robe the color of dawn slipping off one shoulder, dark hair cascading in a glossy river down to her waist.

In her hands: the holy grail—a carton of strawberry milk, pink as sunrise, condensation beading on the foil top, straw already pierced and angled like an invitation.

Her smile was pure mischief, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oppa,” she sang, Korean lilt curling around the word like smoke. “Your fix.”

I took it with reverence, fingers brushing hers, the cold carton a lifeline after the night’s fire. The foil crinkled as I brought the straw to my lips.

First sip—Jesus fucking Christ.

Sweet, creamy, unapologetically artificial paradise exploded across my tongue, washing away alley grime, construction dust, the metallic tang of adrenaline from beating those three pieces of shit into paste.

I exhaled like a man breaking the surface after drowning, eyes fluttering shut, a low, involuntary groan rumbling in my chest.

“Fuuuck, that’s the good shit,” I rasped, head tilting back, throat working as I sucked down half the carton in one greedy pull.

The straw gurgled, protesting, but I didn’t care—each swallow was a reset button, a childhood memory in liquid form, the taste of being broke and happy and thinking a dollar-store strawberry milk was the height of luxury.

Soo-Jin’s laugh was bright, musical, a wind chime in a storm. She leaned against the foyer’s glass wall, arms crossed, robe slipping further to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone.

“Still, I cannot believe,” she said, shaking her head, English soft and accented, words flowing in that gentle, unhurried rhythm I’d come to associate with home. “You keep 1945 Château d’Yquem sleep in cellar. Hibiki 35 also. Macallan bottle cost more than my mother house in Busan. Yet you moan for this small milk.”

She flicked the empty air where the carton had been, grinning wide.

I crushed the carton in my fist—crunch—and spun, arm arcing like a pro. It sailed twenty feet, a pink comet, and swished into the recycling chute with a satisfying thunk.

I prowled toward her, slinging an arm around her shoulders, pulling her flush against my side. Her warmth seeped through silk, her scent—jasmine and something electric, like ozone after lightning—filling my lungs.

“Priorities, love,” I whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice gravel and honey.

“Some men chase power. Some chase legacy. I chase this.” I held up the empty air where strawberry milk had been. “Because power and legacy mean fuck-all if you lose the simple shit that makes you human.”

She giggled, the sound vibrating against my ribs, and playfully shoved at my chest. “You ridiculous always.”

“Ridiculously right,” I shot back, squeezing her tighter, guiding her down the hall.

The estate swallowed us—basalt floors drinking our footsteps, walls shifting from matte black to soft amber as we passed, sensors reading my body temperature and adjusting ambient lighting accordingly.

Somewhere, a hidden panel hummed, adjusting the air to exactly 68 degrees—the temperature I liked after a long night.

Soo-Jin’s fingers found mine, lacing them together, her thumb tracing lazy circles over my knuckles as we walked.

“They all still alive in there?” I asked.

Her laugh turned wicked. “Barely. Sofia try to stand one hour ago. Fall down like baby deer. Emma crawl to bathroom. Crawl, oppa. Is very sad and very funny.”

“Jesus. I told them not to make that challenge.”

“They not listen. Say they can handle you all together.” She shook her head, dark hair swaying. “They learn now. Two days of fuck and they all broken. I had to sleep in guest house with Margaret because moans too loud. Three in morning, still hearing ‘Oh god, Peter, please, I can’t—’ and then more moaning.”

She shuddered dramatically. “Traumatic.”

I laughed so hard I almost tripped. “You’re full of shit. You loved every second of listening.”

“Maybe little bit,” she admitted with a grin.

We rounded the corner into the living room, and—

The living room opened before me like a war room after victory—quiet, heavy with the scent of sweat and satisfaction, the air still humming from two days of unrelenting siege.

The 64K wall TV curved across the north expanse, but calling it a “screen” was like calling the sun a lightbulb.

Real Quantum dot matrix panels—each pixel a microscopic sphere of engineered nanocrystals—rendered the Milky Way in colors that shouldn’t exist. Ultraviolet purples, infrared crimsons, wavelengths your brain processed as impossible beauty. The wall didn’t project light—it became space itself.

Beneath my bare feet, heated basalt pulsed with thermochromic mineral lattices that mapped individual body temperatures in real-time. Sofia’s footsteps glowed at 71 degrees, Emma’s at 69, each woman leaving heat signatures that faded like ghosts.

The ceiling hid metamaterial acoustic lenses that bent sound in impossible ways, creating audio pockets that existed only where you stood. The sub-audible thrum at 7.83 Hz came from the structure itself—the entire room vibrating at Earth’s frequency.

Photonic crystal arrays ran through ceiling channels, producing 2200K amber that made skin look porcelain and shadows look like liquid gold. Not filtered light—engineered wavelengths that didn’t exist in nature.

Coffee tables of graphene aerogel floated on quantum-locked magnetic fields—lighter than air, stronger than steel, suspended without power. The plasma fireplace responded to thought—bioelectric field readers detecting nerve impulses before your hand moved.

Air circulation used electrohydrodynamic propulsion—corona discharge creating ionic wind in laminar flows so precise you could map them with laser. Temperature zones tracked via LIDAR and quantum cameras, adjusting far-infrared panels in milliseconds.

Smart glass windows shifted opacity in microseconds—liquid crystal metamaterials controlled by AI that predicted sun and moon position hours in advance. Currently 40% based on optimal recovery from 48 hours of circadian disruption.

The screen held thirty-two billion pixels at 240Hz, neural rendering creating depth through parallax barriers that tracked eye position. Turn your head and perspective shifted. The anglerfish existed in the room.

This was TV tech years ahead of classified research. Consumer tech transcended.

The war room after victory. The throne room for gods.