Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 158

Chapter 158: Madison: My Ride or Die 2

I let the memory of Trent’s screaming face fade, the blood, the chaos, the perfect satisfaction, and instead focused on the here and now. Madison, shaken and terrified, was safe. That was the only thing that mattered.

And for the first time in hours, I could breathe a little easier.

The cruiser hit a pothole and Madison jolted, clutching the seatbelt like the road itself had a vendetta. "God, this is so weird. I’ve never been in the back of a police car without champagne before."

I stared at her. "You’ve... been in the back of a police car with champagne?"

She shrugged, eyes darting to the tinted windows like she was watching her own public reputation crumble in real time. "Charity event. Don’t ask."

ARIA chuckled in my ear, the digital equivalent of a smirk. "She’s rapidly losing coherence. Should I play calming whale noises?"

’Please don’t. I’m already in here with her.’

Madison laughed—too loud, too sharp—then immediately bit her lip. "Okay, fine, maybe I am having a tiny mental spiral. But you can’t blame me. You’re my—" She cut herself off, like the word was too dangerous to release in front of strangers, even strangers in uniform. "...favorite person. And you’re about to be fed into the legal meat grinder. So yeah, excuse me if I’m clinging to fictional happy endings."

Something in her voice cracked, and for a second the sarcasm slipped. There it was—fear. Not the fear of scandal, or headlines, or whatever dinner-party gossip her family would choke down with their wine. This was raw, personal, hers.

The officer in the driver’s seat coughed, either pretending not to listen or failing miserably. Madison just slumped against me, her perfume mixing with the faint scent of leather and stale air conditioning, and whispered so quietly only I could hear:

"If they take you away for real... I don’t know who I’m supposed to be without you."

I didn’t have an answer for that. And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong to be scared.

I’d never even killed a spider before this. Hell, when Tommy and I used to fight as kids, I’d just stand there and take whatever he dished out like some kind of pacifist punching bag. But this? This primal surge from protecting my family with overwhelming, methodical violence?

It felt like coming home to a rock concert I didn’t know I’d bought tickets to—and the opening act was me smashing everything in sight including my Vice Principal and my chances of getting into a good college.

’Gods I was looking forward to that shit... imagine me fucking all those hot professors and trust fund hot babes, or students from other countries.’

Heck, I could even land a teacher and a few of her students having them moaning at once. I know if I want I will get into. It is such a great opportunity I can not miss, right?

What do you think? (A/N: Tell me what y’all think)

Anyway today was irreversible and I would do the same again, just a bit more. The best part? Not even the violence itself. Watching Emma’s nightmare finally snap was like catching lightning in a jar.

I could picture her right now—probably still shaking, probably still crying, but the kind of tears that smell like relief instead of terror. Trent would never touch her again. Never threaten her. Never make her feel small, trapped, or like the world’s weight was designed specifically to crush her.

My expression hardened again as I replayed that motherfucker’s pathetic attempt at negotiation.

Did Trent really think our little hallway deal was the end of the story? Sure, the temporary arrangement was airtight enough: he wouldn’t expose Emma’s drug possession, and I wouldn’t immediately release evidence of his systematic abuse of students. Damage control. Basic, professional, tidy.

But if he thought I was just going to let him walk away after what he’d done to my sister—after all the other girls he’d probably used as human chew toys—I had to seriously question the wiring in his skull.

That agreement wasn’t justice. It was like slapping a Band-Aid on a burning house. And justice? Justice was me holding the flamethrower.

Trent Holloway embodied everything I despised about the world—predators in button-up shirts, armed with paperwork instead of teeth, who thought authority made them untouchable. Courts wouldn’t act?

Fine. I’d drafted my own verdict: permanent, unsparing, total annihilation. Signed in invisible blood.

Delivered with style.

"Master," ARIA piped up, voice clipped and robotic, "your facial expressions are cycling through approximately seventeen levels of homicidal intent. Your girlfriend appears to be developing genuine fear of your psychological state."

Good. She should understand the full horror movie that is my protective streak.

I softened my expression—barely enough that my face still screamed don’t make me homicidal. "Just processing... everything. Big, messy, ridiculous everything."

And it was cute. In that "oh, someone’s about to get absolutely roasted by reality, but I care anyway" kind of way.

Definitely going to tease her about the movie marathon later. ARIA’s probably got every ridiculous facial expression logged somewhere. This is like watching a vegetarian read a cookbook on exotic carnivore cuisine.

"Consider it done I am changing the title too. Title: How to Cope with Felony Assault: A Cinematic Journey Through Denial," ARIA replied.

I almost laughed. Almost. But the situation didn’t call for humor right now.

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