Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 129

Chapter 129: Dealership

The moment we stepped onto the luxury automotive floor, I felt it. That full-body jolt of culture shock radiating off my family like static cling on a cashmere sweater. This wasn’t a dealership—it was a cathedral built to worship horsepower and bank accounts. The kind of place where even the floors flex on you. Polished marble so expensive, it probably had a mortgage.

Everything gleamed like it was allergic to fingerprints, and I swear the marble floor was judging our Payless shoes in real time.

Mom froze like she’d just wandered into the Queen’s private vault. Her nurse-brain immediately tried to put a price on everything, failed, and quietly panicked.

Her nurse instincts kicked in, eyes scanning the showroom like she was triaging a trauma ward—except instead of broken bones, she was processing six-figure price tags.

"Peter," she whispered, like we were trespassing in a billionaire’s garage. "We don’t belong here."

Ah. And there it is—Mom’s good ol’ working-class guilt, showing up like it pays rent. Always ready to remind us we’re humble, grateful, and allergic to luxury.

Meanwhile, the twins were doing their own thing. Emma looked like she’d just walked into a real-life Barbie dreamscape—bouncing on her toes, eyes wide, already mentally picking out her future ride. Probably something pink and fast enough to get her grounded.

Sarah, on the other hand, had her laser-focused face on. That girl could study a room like it was a crime scene. I’d bet money she was cataloging features, interior options, resale values—because that’s just how her little brain works. No chill. No sparkles. Just analysis.

"Language," Mom said reflexively, but her voice was too distracted to pack any heat. She was staring at a white BMW like it had just winked at her and asked if she wanted to upgrade her entire existence.

Then came the staff.

You could spot a luxury car salesman by the way his smile said "Hello!" and his eyes said "Please don’t touch anything, peasant."

One of them—a walking Hugo Boss ad with a bluetooth headset and no soul—peeled off from the rest and headed our way. Smile too polite. Shoes too clean. Voice pre-programmed for passive aggression.

"Can I help you folks find something today?" he said, all customer-service frosting with a center of please don’t breathe on the leather.

Translation: "Are you lost? Should I call security or the food court?"

’Ah yes. The signature condescension of rich people’s minions. It’s like they train for this. Smile, judge, eject. Rinse and repeat.’

He didn’t say "you look lost," but his tone did. We were the plot twist in his perfect showroom fantasy. And I could already tell—he had no idea who he was talking to.

I almost laughed.

Not because it was funny—because it was predictable. This whole scene was a rerun. And this time? I had the remote.

Before I could even throw out a smartass comeback, Charlotte materialized like some kind of retail archangel—if archangels wore heels sharp enough to slit throats and carried Black Cards with no spending limit.

And just like that, the vibe flipped harder than a Kardashian on a PR crisis.

The salesman—call him "Discount Patrick Bateman"—went from cool disinterest to full-on panic mode in 0.2 seconds. Impressive speed for someone who looked like he thought wearing a pocket square made him better than God.

"Ms. Thompson!" he blurted, eyes wide, voice cracked. "I—I didn’t realize... how can we assist you today?"

Charlotte smiled. Not a warm smile. A ’try me, I dare you’ smile that could shatter wine glasses and careers.

"I’m here to help my business partner’s family pick a car," she said, casually dropping the phrase like a grenade with a Gucci tag. "I trust you’ll provide your absolute best service."

Business partner.

’Hell yeah.’ That hit different. Not mentee. Not charity case. Business partner. Like I belonged in the same tax bracket as her and didn’t still eat ramen out of nostalgia.

Suddenly, it was a whole different movie. Now we had three salespeople orbiting us like we were the damn sun, offering refreshments like we were on a red carpet and Mom had just been nominated for Best Actress in Surviving Shitty Credit Scores.

Shit.

Meanwhile, Emma was doing Emma things—aka being emotionally chaotic in the best way. "Mom, you’re gonna look like a straight-up boss bitch rolling into work in one of these! The other nurses are gonna faint."

Diaz—still scrambling to rewrite his internal script from "lowball this lady" to "kiss the ring"—led us through the Mercedes section like he was auditioning for Selling Sunset: Car Edition.

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