Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 558

Chapter 558: Racing Toward Chaos

The Chiron tore through downtown LA like a bullet with a vendetta, slicing through the night.

Night had fully settled, painting the city in a bleeding canvas of neon and tidal pools of gold.

The glass towers reflected each other into infinity, a dizzying hall of mirrors that showed a thousand versions of my car, a thousand versions of me. It was the kind of beauty that only existed because millions of people were grinding themselves into perm-a-frost on the glass of a studio apartment they’d never own.

Not my problem anymore.

I downshifted, and the engine’s predatory growl was the only thing that mattered. I shot through a gap in traffic that made the guy in the Mercedes behind me lay on his horn, a tinny, impotent sound of rage. Fuck him. He didn’t have 1,500 horsepower and a date with disaster waiting.

This life—being rich, being desired, being this impossibly handsome god... this apex predator I’d become—wasn’t just fucking amazing. It was my birthright. The first Meridian gig hadn’t just gone perfectly; it had been a work of art. Rebecca would be calling back. Catherine knew it. I knew it.

The question wasn’t if, but how many more broken, beautiful women Catherine would send my way next week.

I glanced at the system notification shimmering in my peripheral vision. The Rebecca session had earned me 5,000 SP. A mere token, a trophy for seven hours of making a corporate VP remember she was a goddess.

But the last week? Fucking insane.

The blur of flesh. The pill-fueled 24-hour marathon where Patricia, Catherine, and Dominique had gouged pleasure out of each other until none of them could speak. Isabella, the wild card, joining the fray twice, her hunger a match for their own. The harem-days that left the estate smelling of sex and sweat for days, everyone too sore to walk, too satisfied to care.

Priya and her increasingly creative, desperate date nights, her disciplined control slowly, beautifully, fraying at the edges.

It was a relentless, hedonistic cascade, and I was at the center of it all.

Right now, floating in the system’s ether, I had 600,030 SP.

Well—had.

I kept a healthy 5,000 SP liquid, ready for whatever power-up or pill I might need. The other 595,030? I funneled it, a torrent of digital code, through ARIA’s backdoor algorithms, converting it into cold, hard, untraceable cash. Because power in the system was one thing. Power in the real world, the kind you could hold in your hand, was king. And had I felt like making a withdrawal.

$59,503,000.

Fifty-nine and a half million dollars funneled straight into Liberation Holdings’ secret account—the ghost fund only ARIA and I could touch. The nuclear option. Our getaway money.

But that was just chump change, walking-around money compared to the real financial artillery being rolled out this week.

Amanda and Vivienne had finished carving out our new territory in LA. The hedge fund office wasn’t just set up; it was a fortress of glass and steel, officially licensed, bulletproof on paper. We could trade in the open now. No more skulking in the digital shadows, no more offshore shell games designed to launder our gains. We were the establishment now.

Quantum Tech committed $900 million. Liberation Holdings another $2 billion. Mercy Hospital—Patricia’s 49%—put in $800 million. And Torres Developments, Madison’s family empire, contributed 1% of their assets.

That last one was the most interesting. Madison’s father—that crafty, calculating bastard—had carved off that 1% of his 46% stake and gifted it to us. As a couple. As a gesture of family. A way to tie his daughter’s dangerously charismatic boyfriend to his legacy without ever having to say the words out loud.

Smart move. Kept me invested in Torres Developments’ success.

Not that Madison needed his 1%. She already owned 10% outright. Her late grandfather’s will had secured that before she was even able to know anything about the empire. 10% of a $500+ billion company.

She was so fucking rich even though couldn’t even touch most of it until she took over. But it was there. Waiting. Growing.

My girlfriend was worth more than the GDP of some small nations and she wore yoga pants to breakfast because they were comfortable.

With all the legitimate money pooled—$900M from Quantum Tech, $2B from Liberation Holdings, $800M from Mercy Hospital, $5B from Torres Developments, plus the $50M group investment from my wealthier women—ARIA now had $8.75 billion to trade with in the hedge fund.

Eight point seven five billion dollars.

Sure, it wasn’t all mine. But it moved. And I got 2% of every profit as the "fund manager."

The paperwork was signed. Legal. Above board.

Meridian was the only one dragging its feet. Catherine was salivating at the prospect, but she had to wrangle a board full of ancient, risk-averse suits. New fund, no track record... they saw the risk.

I saw the opportunity to print them into oblivion.

Fifteen. Billion. Dollars.

Fifteen billion. Tomorrow, I’d have more than enough liquid cash for the auction without ever touching the literal tons of gold sitting in a Koreatown vault or any of the other silent accounts.

And ARIA—beautiful, sarcastic, infinitely patient ARIA—was already designing her successor: a self-standing, autonomous trading super-AI. At least 60% AGI. She needed my input for the theoretical framework, but once it was alive, she could focus on bigger projects while the T.AGI handled our financial dominion on autopilot.

My two dates.

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