Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 342

Chapter 342: The Rivera Gambit

I sat in Mom’s Mercedes, suffocating through early morning LA traffic like a zombie in a suit-and-tie funeral procession, toward what could be either a fucking masterstroke or a dumpster fire visible from orbit.

By the time she woke, Mom would be furious I’d bailed without breakfast—probably lecture me about "neurotransmitters" and "antioxidant smoothies" while completely oblivious that her son was about to turn a media empire into his Quantum Tech propaganda machine.

The Exorcist over my skipped breakfast, she’ll go: "Peter! Your mitochondria need protein! Your prefrontal cortex needs oats!" Oblivious. Sweet. Eat your kale, Peter. We’ve got dynasties to dismantle.

I’d left Charlotte and Madison drowning in my sheets like Valkyries after Ragnarok.

Charlotte? Curled in that spot—that hallowed sliver of mattress she’d claimed like a conquistador planting a flag on conquered Venus. Vulnerable as a kitten, lethal as a black widow. Fucking mine. Madison? Sprawled across 60% of the giant bed like she’d bought it, the sheets, and my soul in a hostile takeover, radiating owned energy like Chernobyl’s glow-in-the-dark cousin.

Charlotte’d probably stay at Mom’s house for days—Linda Carter wouldn’t let an exhausted billionaire CEO escape her maternal smothering, and Charlotte needed that coddling more than she’d ever admit. Hilarious. Pathetically necessary.

The Sofia and Jack situation? Locked. Loaded. Ready to detonate. But bigger fish fried first: Antonio "Puppet Emperor" Rivera.

Honestly, post-Miami, my body screamed for three things: rest, skin, family, and liberations. Oh, that is four.

Miami’s newly freed queens needed help relocating their lives, portfolios, and existential purpose into my orbit as they’d requested. Lincoln Heights? Chump change. All of LA was the fucking jackpot. My future harem would cling to Big Daddy Eros like barnacles on a battleship. Gotta build them a capitalist Eden—where ventures bloom and enemies vanish quietly, like cancelled influencers.

I shook my head, focusing on the road—LA’s concrete labyrinth bleeding exhaust fumes.

Today’s Thursday: D-Day Triple Threat. API Auction. Making Tommy Chen a millionaire (and me his "humble wizard behind the curtain"). Golden-heart Tommy, refusing to ditch his "boring" bestie. Gag. Adorable. Like golden retriever loyalty, but with stock options.

Moving Day. Fortress of Solitude 2.0 awaits. Finally ditching Mom’s suburban purgatory.

Rivera’s Final Nail. One last swing to crucify Antonio like a budget messiah nailed to a cross of bad decisions.

But here’s the real Rivera Family secret Antonio’s too busy choking on his own mediocrity to realize: "Wannabe Dynasty"

Antonio doesn’t own shit. Spineless bastard’s just a marionette dancing for his in-laws—the actual Rivera Dynasty. Married into the family as their son-in-law, and they made his traitor-ass change his name to Rivera before they’d even allow the fucking wedding.

He’d been smart enough—talented enough—to morph their media cesspool into a digital juggernaut. Only reason the blue-bloods let a two-bit pleb marry royalty. Then? Betrayal City.

Sided with Vincent and Dmitri to steal the whole goddamn circus. Amateur hour. Like watching a toddler try to rob Fort Knox with a fucking Monopoly credit card.

Now? It’s all coming down. Since yesterday, ARIA hasn’t stopped bleeding Rivera Next Media dry while shorting Quantum Tech’s meteoric rise. But the financial damage?

Pocket change. The endgame’s bigger—legal WMDs.

Soon, Quantum Tech will sue Rivera Next Media. So will Harvard and Stanford—per the ironclad agreements all three entities signed. And all the power behind those lawsuits? Held by Quantum Tech. Specifically, by Eros Velmior Desiderion. That name’s about to echo in boardrooms like a shotgun cocking.

But here’s the key: I didn’t insert that clause because I get off on being an overpowered cunt wrecking empires for shits and giggles. Even if I brought them to their knees with lawsuits?

Pointless beyond a few billion bucks—which I already have from liquidating the three vultures’ accounts. Even if I burned them to ash? They’d resurrect like a goddamn herpes outbreak. The Rivera Family’s as strong as the Torres Dynasty—maybe stronger—than they let the world see.

A few billion in losses? A fucking love tap. Like slapping a main battle tank with a wet noodle.

So I bought their lawsuits. Half-a-billion each from Harvard. Half-a-fucking-billion from Stanford.

You try conquering industries without a media rabid rottweiler? Fool’s errand. Might as well bring a fucking spork to a drone strike. Yeah, I could build my own media empire through Quantum Tech—all the blood money’s right there and that would take years.

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