Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 177

Chapter 177: The Vampire House Fantasy

I kept dreaming for days about walking into that estate. In my mind, it’s like the Batcave had a messy affair with a Bond villain and decided to redecorate in goth-chic. Charlotte’s tearing it apart, keeping the Gothic vampire aesthetic (because of course) while turning the basement into something straight out of a sci-fi fever dream.

Quantum-encrypted servers blink like tiny judgmental eyes, silently judging Jeff Bezos for ever thinking rockets were cool. Holographic displays that make MIT look like a toddler’s science fair. A sensory deprivation tank that screams, "I own my mind, thank you very much, Elon."

A gym with equipment that costs more than most people’s entire houses—machines tracking every fiber of muscle like CIA analysts stalking interns. Recovery pods that look like alien cocoons because, obviously, my ass deserves alien-level luxury.

In my fantasy, I step through the entrance hall as Peter Carter and emerge as Eros Velmior Desiderion. Chandelier light slashes across the floor like paparazzi flashes. Shadows twist, dance, worship me. ARIA’s voice booms from hidden speakers: "Welcome home, master."

The women my women—the conquests, the liberations, the taboos of sex, the power games, the corporate dominance, citywide influence—already mapped in my mind like a chessboard. Billionaires, politicians, CEOs—they’re pawns as I take their women, all of them, moving exactly where I want them.

The women who think they hold power? Cute. I’ll have them begging for invitations to rooms they’ll never understand.

Each woman would be a calculated storm: sharp, brilliant, dangerous. Some will bend boards of directors to my will with a glance; others will whisper in the right ears and ignite revolutions—sexual, political, financial.

Every liaison a transaction, every touch a negotiation, every conquest a headline I write in the privacy of my mind before it ever hits reality.

In my empire, desire is a currency. Taboo is a weapon. Pleasure is leverage. The city will pulse with it, every skyscraper and penthouse an extension of my reach, every party a battlefield where champagne flows like strategy and bodies move like pieces on a map only I can see.

ARIA’s voice hums through hidden speakers: "Master, your empire awaits." I imagine her holograms illustrating each conquest, each liberation, every power play—all recorded in real time for the subtle joy of watching fate obey me.

This isn’t narcissism. It’s strategy. It’s inevitability. Peter Carter dies at the threshold of this estate. What rises isn’t just a man—it’s a force of nature, a predator, a king of pleasure and power who reshapes every boardroom, bedroom, and boulevard in his orbit.

Charlotte, somewhere behind a wall of glass and marble, is smiling. Already calculating profits, already plotting the chaos we’re about to unleash together. The empire isn’t just ours—it’s performance art, financial domination, and social commentary rolled into one.

Peter Carter is gone. Eros Velmior Desiderion is home.

Women I mold, train, and guide. They infiltrate social circles, manipulate boardrooms, dominate in ways that make the elite bend to my will, all while satisfying forbidden cravings. Think influencers, heiresses, corporate prodigies—every touch, every secret, every conquest expands my network like a virus.

I had three Queens in my mind.

The Corporate Siren (Charlotte after I conquer her): CEO of a tech conglomerate, used to controlling boardrooms and male egos. She’ll bend to me behind closed doors, negotiating mergers and acquisitions with one hand, and surrendering to touch with the other. Publicly, she’s untouchable; privately, she’s mine.

The Politician’s Mistress: Influential enough to sway legislation, dangerous enough to ruin careers with a whisper. A single word of her’s could shift city policy. She’s my key to controlling not just desire, but laws and consequences.

The Artist of Scandal: A world-renowned performer whose performances blur the line between exhibition and provocation. Her liberation feeds my power; her audacity becomes the pulse of the city’s undercurrent.

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