Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 481

Chapter 481: The Promised Land

The Lincoln Club loomed ahead like some glitchy TikTok filter come to life—way sicker than Tommy and I ever hyped it up during our broke-ass daydreams in the back of algebra.

Three floors of old warehouse turned nightlife cathedral, bricks painted that flat blackout matte, with only the giant LED sign screaming LINCOLN CLUB in electric cobalt and violet pulses that made the whole street feel like we’d portaled into a different zip code.

The bass smacked me from halfway down the block. Not just noise; actual pressure waves rolling through the Phantom’s soundproofing, through the buttery leather, straight into my ribcage until my heartbeat was like, "yo, sync up or get left."

That thump-thump-thump that hijacks your spine before your brain even clocks what’s happening.

The line snaked around the corner—two hundred kids deep, all pressed against the velvet ropes like they were waiting for the pearly gates of cool.

Mercy Med freshmen in crop tops and fake confidence. Local try-hards rocking Shein versions of Balenciaga. Couple sketchy thirty-somethings who definitely lied about their age on the guest list.

And right up front, bouncing like he’d mainlined Red Bull and tequila shots, was Tommy Chen—my ride-or-die since middle school—checking his phone every three seconds like it owed him money.

I eased the Phantom up to the valet podium—zero chill, full send, because when you roll a half-mil car, stealth mode isn’t in the settings. The second those scissor doors lifted, the line went dead.

Not quiet-quiet—bass still leaking through the walls like a second heartbeat—but that hush where every convo gets yeeted mid-sentence because something way more interesting just pulled up.

I caught my reflection in the rearview right before I stepped out: Peter Carter, certified teenage anomaly. Face that makes girls forget their own names, jawline sharp enough to slice through small talk, eyes that see straight through Instagram filters and fake laughs.

Deep breath. Leather, new money, and whatever cologne costs more than rent. Then I swung the door.

LA night heat slapped me like a wet towel. The ripple hit the crowd instantly—phones up, jaws down, brains buffering.

Guys stared at the car first. Always do. Four hundred grand of British flex with a nineteen-year-old or something climbing out? Their mental math explodes: crypto? daddy’s Amex? SoundCloud rapper who actually popped off? They’ll be Googling me by morning.

Girls stared at me.

Different energy. Primal. Eyes went cartoon-wide, lips parted, breaths hitched. Saw one chick tug her skirt hem down then immediately hike it back up. Another flipped her hair so hard she almost gave herself whiplash. Magnetism, zero effort.

Up front, some Mercy Med girl in a tied-up hoodie—probably future surgeon, definitely present thirst trap—whispered loud enough for the whole block: "Holy hell. Marry me and I’ll never study again."

Her friend just squeaked. Legit squeaked.

Tommy spotted me and started flailing both arms like he was landing a 737. "PETER! BRO! GET OVER HERE!"

I crossed the sidewalk and the Red Sea parted without me saying a word. That’s the cheat code money and cheekbones unlock—people just move.

Tommy grabbed my shoulders, sloshing whatever was in his cup. "Perfect timing, king. I was just schooling my new best friend—" he jerked a thumb at the bouncer built like a Dodge Ram—"on how we’re basically VIP royalty."

He had a fat stack of hundreds pinched between his fingers like he mugged an ATM. Drunk Tommy negotiates like a Kardashian.

"Tommy, chill—"

"Nah, watch the master." He peeled off five crisp Benjamins—five hundred bucks like it’s arcade tokens—and slid them into the bouncer’s paw with the sleight of hand of a Vegas hustler. "For the inconvenience, big man. And for pretending you never saw how young we look."

Bouncer glanced at the cash, glanced at the Phantom glowing under the LEDs like a flexing peacock, then at me—like he was deciding if we were worth the paperwork.

Decision made. Rope dropped.

"Welcome to Lincoln Club, gentlemen."

Just like that. No ID. No pat-down. No "come back when you’re twenty-one."

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The sensory overload hit immediately—all at once, overwhelming, deliberately engineered to assault every sense simultaneously until your brain gave up trying to process and just felt.

The bass hit different inside. Not just heard but felt, vibrations traveling through the floor—polished concrete that looked almost liquid under LED lights—up through my legs, settling into my chest cavity where my heart had to adjust its rhythm or go insane. That thump-thump-thump-thump became your heartbeat, became your breathing, became the only rhythm that mattered.

And then I saw her.

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