Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 581

Chapter 581: Montclairs: Elise and Theo Montclair

I let out a slow breath. The ripple hit the room like a flex: glass cracked somewhere behind me, a woman laughed a little too brightly before swallowing the sound like she’d said something embarrassing on live TV, and the air thickened into a cocktail of sex, orchids, and very expensive desperation.

Edward Sterling still hadn’t noticed me.

Didn’t matter.The room was already orbiting the man in linen and midnight blue like he’d bought naming rights to gravity.

The place looked like someone had hired a Renaissance painter, a billionaire, and a petty god, then forced them to collaborate.

The walnut-paneled rotunda scraped up three stories to a coffered ceiling full of allegorical frescoes. Commerce. Hospitality. Fortune. Basically the holy trinity of rich people excuses. A single Baccarat chandelier hung on a bronze chain thick enough to strangle a dragon, three hundred crystals throwing rainbow shrapnel across the black-and-white marble.

Velvet chairs with gilded edges curved around a mahogany dais like a polite cult gathering. Each seat had a brass plaque discreetly bragging about who owned it. Front row reserved for bidders whose tax returns required NDAs.

Center stage: a rostrum carved from burled walnut, mother-of-pearl inlaid like it wanted to be a saint. Two 8K screens behind it rotated renderings of the Celestial Grand. Infinity pool floating off the edge of the world. Glass penthouse waiting to be sinned in. Private helipad glowing gold like it charged by the second.

People began filing in, each one announcing their net worth simply by existing.

Saudi industrialist in dove-gray thobe, his wife’s abaya threaded with actual gold like she was wearing a treasury.

A London private-equity partner draped in emerald silk and pearls the size of guilt.

Brazilian commodities heir in gold lamé with a slit that climbed all the way to ambition. Eyes already scouting.

Japanese real-estate chairman carved from charcoal linen and precision.

Hollywood studio head dripping champagne satin, emeralds swinging from his wife’s ears like liquid currency.

Swiss pharma heir in midnight velvet, ruby cufflinks flashing like tiny warnings.

Dubai sovereign delegate in crisp white, Rolex peeking like it had its own security detail.

New York hedge-fund legend in chalk-stripe sharp enough to file taxes on.

They sat, and the air shifted — white truffle, oud, and that metallic buzz of people about to throw money at a problem until it stops being a problem.

At 11:59, the quartet hit a perfect, crystalline A. Every head snapped toward the staircase like puppets tugged by the same string.

And then she appeared.

The auctioneer climbed the dais with the kind of effortless presence that made the room forget how to blink.

Mid-thirties. Skin poured smooth. Ink-black hair twisted low, revealing the kind of neck sculptors cry about. Scarlet silk gown, bias-cut to slither without being thirsty. Boat neckline that behaved itself but made every eye misbehave. A single comet-shaped diamond brooch pinned above her left breast like a promise. Red heels, four inches, silent enough to scare angels.

She didn’t carry notes. Of course she didn’t. Women like her carried rooms.

Her smile slid out slow and warm. The room exhaled as one organism.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, voice smooth enough to be illegal in five countries, "welcome to the sale of the Celestial Grand Hotel. I’m Valentina Moreau, and I promise to keep this moving faster than your private jets — with fewer customs officers flirting with you along the way."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, surprised and real.

She angled herself just enough for the chandelier to flirt with the diamond at her throat.

"Before we dive into numbers — and trust me, they’re indecent — let me thank you for showing up. You’ve flown from Riyadh, Tokyo, São Paulo, London, and probably a few tax havens your lawyers begged you not to mention. Your collective net worth could fund a moon colony, and yet here you are, battling over a single hotel. I love this job."

Her laugh warmed, smoothing across the room like she’d just seduced the acoustics.

She turned toward the wings with a motion so graceful it probably had its own PR team.

"Now, let me introduce the reason we’re all here — the sellers. Miss Elise Montclair and her brother, Mr. Theo Montclair."

They entered from opposite sides of the dais like a designer ad campaign brought to life.

Elise Montclair, thirty-two, willowy in that way that makes photographers start whispering about lighting angles and destiny.

Elise moved to the rostrum. Valentina gave her the mic with a playful curtsy that somehow didn’t look ridiculous on a scarlet-silk goddess.

"Thank you, Valentina — and for the record, I did clear customs in record time, so no shade."

"We wanted it to go to someone who would love it the way he did."

She gestured to the room — industrialists, heiresses, empire-builders assembled like some ultra-curated Olympus.

"We did not expect you. Your presence is the greatest tribute we could have asked for. Frankly, I’m half-tempted to auction off the bidder paddles just to keep you all here."

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