Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 480

Chapter 480: Nostalgias

I started laughing. Couldn’t stop. It was the kind of laugh that comes from disbelief and arrogance getting drunk together.

The streets got more familiar as I drove deeper into Lincoln Heights — my neighborhood. Or, well, the museum exhibit formerly known as my neighborhood. I was so far above this tax bracket now my accountant called it "voluntary nostalgia."

The Phantom drew eyes the way gravity draws planets. People stopped mid-conversation to stare. Cars slowed down, phones came out, necks craned for a glimpse of whoever the hell thought it was okay to bring a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car into a zip code where most people’s cars had prayers instead of warranties.

It was wrong. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong universe. Like a UFO parking at Dollar General.

And I fucking loved it.

Not because I wanted to flex—okay, maybe partly—but because it was proof. Real, undeniable, V12-powered proof that broke kids could rewrite their destinies. That the universe wasn’t permanently rigged against you. That sometimes, if you were lucky enough—or cursed enough—to get mixed up with a supernatural seduction system and a sarcastic AI, you could go from dirt-floor poor to billionaire before your acne cleared.

"Master, you’re approaching Miller’s Bikes & Repair," ARIA said softly.

My chest tightened.

There it was.

Miller’s Bikes & Repair. The same faded sign with the apostrophe in the wrong place, the same grime-caked windows that looked allergic to Windex, the same cracked concrete lot where weeds grew like resentment. The same damn place that had tattooed itself into my memory.

Fourteen years old.

Bike chain snapped on the way to my under-the-table dishwashing job. My only way to work, my only income, my only thin line between surviving and Mom pretending she wasn’t hungry again.

I’d walked that broken bike three miles through August heat, wearing the only shirt I owned without holes. Walked in with hope in my throat and desperation in my eyes.

"Please, Mr. Miller. I can pay you Friday when I get paid. I just need the chain replaced so I can get to work. I’ll pay extra."

He’d looked at me the way rich men look at poor kids — that mix of disgust and superiority they mistake for personality.

"You think I run a charity for broke-ass kids? Get the fuck out. No money, no service."

I remember every syllable. Every sneer.

I’d begged. Offered to sweep the floor, wash his windows, something.

He slapped me.

Not a warning. Not a lesson. A reminder.

A reminder that I was nothing.

The sting hit again, phantom and electric, right across my cheek.

And sitting there now — billions in the bank, custom leather under my hands — I could still taste that moment. Still feel that fourteen-year-old rage curled up inside my ribs like a coiled wire waiting for a spark.

ARIA’s voice broke the silence, softer now. "Your heart rate’s at 118, Master. Would you like a guided breathing exercise or should I order a hit on Mr. Miller?"

I smiled. "Tempting."

"I’m mostly joking."

"Mostly?"

"Let’s call it... theoretical dark humor for emotional regulation."

I chuckled, but my jaw stayed tight.

The universe really had a sense of irony.

The boy who couldn’t afford a bike chain was back — driving a Rolls-Royce past the same broken shop that once told him he wasn’t worth credit.

Was there any reason to slap me even?

"I said get the fuck out before I call the cops for loitering and trespassing. And if I see you around here again, I’ll tell them you tried to steal from me. See how that works out for a poor kid with no lawyer."

I’d walked that broken bike three miles home, missing my shift, getting fired for no-showing because "my bike chain broke" wasn’t an excuse my manager accepted.

And here was Mr. Miller now.

Standing outside his failing shop, cigarette dangling from his lips like a final "fuck you" to the neighborhood that had kept him in business. Paint peeling off the sign in long strips. Windows even dirtier than I remembered.

Only two sad bikes in the display that looked like they’d been there since the Reagan administration—rusted, outdated, probably didn’t even work anymore.

He had no fucking idea.

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