Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 131

Chapter 131: Linda Carter’s (POV)

At thirty-five, Linda Carter still had that kind of unbothered, stop-and-stare beauty—the kind that made dudes twist their necks like owls in public, even if they were pushing strollers next to their wives. Not that she noticed anymore.

You stop caring about that stuff when tuition’s due, twins are arguing over cereal, and your son just bought you a luxury car that probably costs more than your ex’s dignity.

Her dark hair, now streaked with faint caramel highlights, framed her face like a last-minute halo someone painted over a war veteran. And her eyes? Warm brown, with just enough exhaustion baked into them to let you know she’s seen some shit—but she still shows up, lip gloss and all.

She had the figure of someone who moved constantly—part nurse, part firefighter, part unpaid therapist. All at once. And yet, she still moved like the woman she used to be: elegant, gentle, kind.

The version that hadn’t yet learned that grace didn’t pay the bills and love wasn’t always loyal.

She glanced at Peter, who was laughing with that smirk only he could pull off—explaining some hyper-nerd technical nonsense to his girlfriend like he was Elon Musk with an attitude problem.

But all Linda saw was the infant who’d thrown her entire life off its rails.

’Sixteen years ago, he fit in one arm. Now he’s got more opinions than a Twitter thread.’

Her memory hit rewind.

The hospital call. Maria—her beautiful, wild best friend, who had been spiraling harder than a celeb mid-scandal—dead during childbirth.

No father listed. No emergency contact. Just a baby boy and Linda, with her one-year-old twins, drowning in her own chaos and somehow still answering the call no one else would.

Now here she was, in the passenger seat of a freaking Mercedes, trying to process all of it. Trying to reconcile the woman she’d become with the idiot who once thought Edward Sterling was her forever.

Yeah. That Edward. The classic rich boy fantasy turned cautionary tale.

Edward had it all—old money, custom-tailored charm, and a face so sharp it could’ve been carved by God on a day He was showing off.

And yet, under all that glow-up exterior, he was just another pretty virus in a suit. Cheated like it was a full-time job. From yoga instructors to bored housewives, and, rumor had it, even a girl who’d once babysat for them.

The man didn’t discriminate. Just circulated.

Back then, Linda had dropped out of college for that delusion. Thought she was the exception, not the lesson. Turns out, Edward had loyalty the same way a broken vending machine had snacks—you could hope, but you weren’t getting shit.

And now?

Now she was here. In leather seats, in a car her son bought. Watching him live in a world she could barely dream of—darkly brilliant, coldly focused, and ten steps ahead of the life that once tried to bury them both.

She had been a fool.

Not the kind of fool who gets duped once and learns, but the kind that spins delusion into silk and wears it like royalty—until the silk frays and cuts deep into the skin.

The whirlwind romance hadn’t been a love story. It had been a transaction. Desperation, dressed in fine suits and practiced charm, had swept her into a world she was never meant to belong to.

Edward hadn’t fallen in love.

He’d made a strategic selection. A pliable, dazzled girl, drunk on validation and drowning in fairy tales. A girl so hungry for affection, she mistook possession for passion.

And she said yes.

Yes to the man. Yes to the family. Yes to the life she thought she could earn with obedience and soft smiles.

The early days of marriage glittered with illusion—imported champagne, designer gowns, his hand on her back at charity galas. But behind the glass walls of their mansion, the cracks multiplied fast. It started with silences.

Then glances. Then the way his mother would pause mid-conversation when Linda entered, as if her very presence soured the air. The way she’d smile—tight-lipped, surgical—and say, "We didn’t expect Edward to bring home someone so... earnest."

Earnest. Meaning low-born. Meaning clueless. Meaning not one of us.

Linda had pretended not to hear. She’d pretended a lot of things.

Pregnancy should have been a joy, a second chance to root herself in the world she was trying to survive.

Instead, it exposed her as an intruder. The staff whispered behind doors. Edward’s affection cooled into tolerance. His touch became mechanical, like he was obligated to complete the performance.

And when the twins were born, the congratulations came with glassy smiles and too-perfect arrangements—as if they were burying her beneath a thousand roses.

Her children weren’t anchors. They were shackles. Not to her—but to him. She had given him heirs, and he repaid her with distance. With rage. She’d stolen his youth, his freedom, his image.

She thought she could fix it. That if she smiled harder, served warmer meals, bore colder nights, he would soften.

Then Maria had returned.

A hurricane from her past, all fire and pain and too much truth. Her best friend from before—before Linda sold herself to a polished cage and called it love. Maria had nothing but bite marks from life, no illusions left, no silk over her bruises.

Linda knew.

She took the child in her arms, felt the weight, the warmth, the need, and chose love over survival.

He walked into the marble foyer, saw the infant swaddled in his wife’s arms, and spat, "Hand him over. We’re not running a fucking orphanage for dead whores."

The words weren’t just cruel—they were vile. Dehumanizing. Spoken like the child was a stain, like Maria was dirt, like Linda had betrayed him by remembering who she once was.

And that—that—was the moment the last veil fell.

She looked down at the baby in her arms. Maria’s son. Her son now.

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