Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 583

Chapter 583: The War Begins 2

The number burned across the 8K screens, white-gold against a midnight field, arrogant and pristine.

A beat.

Another.

Then—first blood.

Khalid Al-Fahd lifted his paddle. Dove-gray thobe crisp, expression saintly, ego humming beneath the surface. He didn’t bother speaking. His wallet did.

"Six hundred million to Mr. Al-Fahd."

Valentina’s smile cut clean, surgical.

"Do I hear six-ten?"

A second paddle rose. The London partner. Pearls catching light like they were begging to be worshipped.

"Six hundred and ten million."

The number shifted onscreen, smooth as a vein opening.

The room leaned in. Shoulders squared. Breathing deepened. The real game flexed its knuckles.

Valentina pivoted, scanning the battlefield.

"Six-ten from London. Six-twenty?"

Hiroshi Tanaka’s aide raised his paddle. No theatrics. No breath. Just that quiet, lethal rhythm old money uses when it’s about to break someone’s spine politely.

"Six-twenty to Tanaka Holdings."

$620,000,000.

Rafael Silva flashed a grin cinematic enough to trend on Brazilian TikTok. Gold lamé glittered like he’d dressed for his own coronation. Paddle up.

"Six hundred and thirty million."

$630,000,000.

The rhythm quickened, pulse syncing with the chandelier’s trembling light.

Sheikh Omar bin Rashid lifted his paddle with surgeon precision.

"Six-forty."

$640,000,000.

Then Victor Hale—chalk-stripes, predator calm, jaw wired with ambition.

"Six-fifty."

$650,000,000.

Each new number slammed onto the screens like a living heartbeat. The chandelier practically hummed, crystals vibrating high enough to tighten molars.

Valentina rode the rising tempo, voice gleaming.

"Six-fifty. Do I hear six-sixty?"

The Battle Intensifies

The rotunda felt like lungs held too long. Tension crackled, humming through velvet, marble, and skin. Every pair of eyes locked on paddles, screens, the scarlet figure at the rostrum.

My Lust Presence spread wider, slower, darker. A velvet fog. Desire and aggression fusing under the ribs of the room’s elite. Pulse spikes. Flushed cheeks. Shallow breaths. A thousand micro-confessions blooming under their skin.

Valentina steadied herself on the rostrum, knuckles whitening just a hair.

"Six-fifty going once..."

A paddle snapped up—Scandinavian fund manager, blonde hair plastered slightly with sweat, resolve carved on her face.

"Six hundred and sixty million."

$660,000,000.

Gasps rippled through velvet rows. The screens pulsed brighter, like the number itself inhaled.

"Six-sixty to Scandinavia. Do I hear six-seventy?"

The Singapore rep rose, silk tie unnervingly perfect, voice clipped and controlled.

"Six-seventy."

$670,000,000.

The chandelier’s song sharpened, glass almost buzzing with the tension. Bidders recalculated futures in real time.

"Six-seventy. Six-eighty?" Valentina called.

Silence thickened. Heavy as a throat swallowing regret.

Then—

Edward Sterling raised his paddle.

Navy wool immaculate. Silver hair arranged like it was afraid to disappoint him. But his jaw was tight, eyes too sharp.

"Six hundred and eighty million."

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