Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 221

Chapter 221: Divine Intervention With Tongue

A/N: Guys I am sorry we made a mistake in update yesterday before we edited that Chapter, I have updated the Chapter we had to update yesterday.

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The Maybach wasn’t a car—it was a temple of money disguised as transportation.

Charlotte’s jet, which cost more than half a town’s people’s lifetime earnings, suddenly felt like economy class with free peanuts and a crying baby in row 13.

The leather was obscene. Not "premium leather" like car commercials brag about—this shit was so soft it felt like I was being swallowed whole by a silk-skinned goddess. Every time I shifted, the seats massaged muscles I didn’t even know I owned. If this car had hands, it would’ve been on the registry.

Ambient lighting glowed like liquid starlight—violets, blues, soft pulses of neon that made it feel like we weren’t driving through Miami at all, but floating in some cosmic nightclub designed for billionaires and demons.

There was a minibar stocked with crystal glasses and bottles of liquor that probably had names in French I couldn’t pronounce but could guarantee cost more than my mom’s old Honda Civic.

"I am exhausted," Charlotte whispered, sinking into her seat like she’d just been swallowed by a money dragon.

"This," Madison said from behind her veil, voice regal and sharp, "is what your father built for you. A kingdom of luxuries most mortals can only dream about but needs saving."

I leaned back, letting the Maybach’s suspension erase the bumps of Miami’s streets until it felt like we were gliding above the city instead of rolling through it. Behind tinted glass that could hide a murder trial, Miami began to unfold for me—and holy fuck, it was alive.

Lincoln Heights looked like a nursing home in cosplay compared to this.

The highways were arteries of chrome and excess. Lambos, Ferraris, McLarens—all flexing their horsepower like peacocks on coke. Every car was jewelry that had come to life and decided to scream Daddy never hugged me. Every driver looked like someone you could either rob or seduce—probably both in the same night.

Palm trees lined the roads like smug sentinels of paradise, swaying in ocean breezes heavy with salt, lust, and the perfume of neglected housewives waiting for someone like me to ruin their yoga-toned lives.

The architecture was Miami’s love letter to sin. Old art deco mansions clung to their faded cocaine-era glory while modern glass towers stabbed upward like crystal erections pointed at heaven, worshipping the gods of excess and orgasms.

And then there were the women.

Jesus Christ, the women.

They were everywhere—jogging along South Beach in sports bras that left their souls (and everything else) exposed. Bodies carved by personal trainers, curves that screamed look at me, paired with eyes that whispered touch me. Boutique shoppers floated down sidewalks in dresses that cost more than a semester of college, their smiles sharp, their laughter hollow, every step radiating that particular hunger only wealth without fulfillment creates.

And by the pools? Forget it. Bikini-clad perfection draped over chaise lounges, sipping cocktails the color of sunset, their swimsuits cut so aggressively it was basically lingerie with better PR. Skin tanned, oiled, gleaming like they’d been crafted in laboratories to test my willpower—and losing.

This city wasn’t just alive—it was throbbing. Beating like a heart fueled by lust, greed, and opportunity.

And I was its perfect disease.

"ARIA," I thought through the neural link, that predatory edge already sharpening my tone. "What’s the sexual frustration level in this city?"

Her voice came like silk wrapped around steel, clinical but dripping devotion. "Miami contains the highest density of sexually neglected wealth in North America, Master. Upper-class divorce rate: sixty-seven percent. Average marital satisfaction: three-point-two out of ten. Forty-three percent of wives currently in active affairs. In other words—you’re standing in the middle of the most target-rich environment in the continental United States. These women are begging for liberation."

The numbers weren’t just statistics. They were music. They were hunger given shape. My instincts thrummed like a live wire. Miami wasn’t just a city—it was an orgasm waiting for ignition.

First time here, and already I knew this wouldn’t be my last.

California had been a kingdom I was carving carefully, brick by brick, but Miami? Miami was a feeding frenzy. The energy was rawer, dirtier, hungrier. These people weren’t just rich—they were starving.

The Maybach purred through the veins of the city, carrying me straight into temptation’s heart: an engagement party. Wealthy women gathering to toast someone else’s second chance at love.

Translation: a ballroom full of suppressed moans and restless eyes.

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