Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 411

Chapter 411: The Bedroom of an Urban Sex God

A/N: Guys, this Chapter is to take us in our next orgy soooo.....

It was already late by the time we dragged ourselves back.

The bags, the receipts, the gawking looks from every store clerk in the city—they were behind us now. The girls were half-asleep in the van, heads tilted, shopping bags like trophies around their feet. The Miami ones especially looked dead on their feet; they’d been flying, walking, living on adrenaline for days. Their laughter had burned out into soft, contented silence.

I’d had other plans for the night—more places to hit, more chaos to chase—but I shelved them. They’d earned their rest. Tonight, sleep was the most expensive gift I could give them.

Me? My blood was still fizzing like champagne in the veins. The thrill hadn’t faded—it was still burning through me, a sweet kind of delirium that hummed between every heartbeat.

Eighty. Million. Dollars.

In one day.

On shopping.

Nobody did that. Nobody sane, at least. But I did.

When the system first chose me, I swore I’d do something like this one day—not out of greed, not for survival or investment, but for spite. For rebellion. To spit in the face of logic, of restraint, of every small-minded critic who mistook frugality for virtue. I remember saying it to myself: One day, I’ll spend a hundred million in a single day. Just to prove I can.

Didn’t hit a hundred. Eighty instead.

Close enough to call it divine.

Most of it wasn’t even on them—it was on my toys. Cars. Watches. Architecture of excess. Sins carved in steel, stitched in leather, ticking in platinum. But watching my women drift through boutiques like empresses reborn, getting whatever they want, watching disbelief turn into laughter, watching exhaustion melt into wonder—that was the true purchase.

That was the point.

Criticism can go to hell. Call me reckless. Call me insane. Call me what you want—I built my life so no opinion could afford me.

I grew up counting coins, weighing dreams against price tags. Now I count heartbeats and spend money like vengeance. Because the world once told me I couldn’t have it—so now I take it, break it, and hand it to the ones I love like an apology from the universe.

As long as they’re smiling, as long as I’m laughing, as long as this madness feels like freedom clawing at my ribs—then every cent was worth it.

**

The bedroom wasn’t just a room. It was a kingdom with sheets.

The kind of place that made five-star hotel suites look like Airbnbs run by broke influencers. The first thing that hit you wasn’t the chandelier dripping from the ceiling like molten gold, or the walls wrapped in velvet darker than midnight sin—it was the bed.

Not a bed. A monument to temptation.

A fortress of silk and shadow, broad enough to host a small rebellion—or twenty bodies, depending on what kind of night you were planning. The platform beneath it was carved black marble, edges pulsing with soft amber light like the heartbeat of something ancient. The glow kissed the sheets and made them look alive, a throne disguised as a resting place.

Silk sheets the color of spilled wine tangled with snow-white fur throws. The pillows weren’t scattered; they were strategically deployed, like an army trained to catch every sigh, every cry, every surrender.

The room didn’t just stretch wide—it commanded space. You could waltz, you could scheme, you could stage a coup d’état and still have room for champagne service. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to the city below, tinted so only he could look out while everyone else saw nothing but themselves—a one-way mirror for voyeurs who deserved punishment.

This wasn’t a bedroom. It was a manifestation of control. Every thread, every reflection, every glimmer existed because he allowed it to.

At the far end, a mirrored wall stretched from floor to ceiling, gilded in arrogance. Every movement, every kiss, every arch of the body was caught and multiplied—sin refracted into art. Across from it, a raised lounge wrapped in black leather and gold trim waited for the bold or the broken, a throne for spectators too afraid to play but too weak to look away.

The air was alive. Perfume of indulgence—sandalwood, faint tobacco, and something darker that couldn’t be bottled. The vents whispered, exhaling cool air laced with pheromones tuned to his will. The room didn’t just smell of desire—it obeyed it.

This wasn’t a bedroom. It was a sanctuary for the damned, a cathedral built not for prayer, but for worship of flesh and power. Luxury was the camouflage. Sin was the sermon.

And at its center—the bed. Waiting like a black hole in silk. Calling. Promising. Hungry enough to consume gods and still ask for seconds. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Beyond the glass, the forest bowed in silence. No city lights, no noise—just the hum of power surrounding the estate. My kingdom didn’t need the world’s attention. It demanded distance.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify