Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 584

Chapter 584: The Explosive Bid

"Seven-ninety-one."

$791,000,000.

The screens updated with a soft chime.

The room held its breath.

Silva shifted in his seat, gold lamé catching the light. His voice came out hoarse but determined.

"Seven-ninety-two."

$792,000,000.

Omar’s hand shook as he raised his paddle, thobe rustling with the movement. His whisper carried in the silence.

"Seven-ninety-three."

$793,000,000.

Hale leaned forward, chalk-stripes perfectly pressed despite the tension. His voice was a low growl.

"Seven-ninety-four."

$794,000,000.

Al-Fahd lifted his paddle with deliberate slowness, gold rings catching light. His voice was rough, strained.

"Seven-ninety-five."

$795,000,000.

The incremental crawl continued. Each bid slow, calculated, dragging through the thick atmosphere of competition and desire.

Tanaka again, jaw clenched.

"Seven-ninety-six."

$796,000,000.

Silva, sweat visible on his brow.

"Seven-ninety-seven."

$797,000,000.

Omar, voice trembling.

"Seven-ninety-eight."

$798,000,000.

Hale, eyes narrowed.

"Seven-ninety-nine."

$799,000,000.

The rotunda seemed to contract, pressure building.

Al-Fahd stood, drawing himself to full height. His voice rang out, powerful despite the strain.

"EIGHT HUNDRED MILLION!"

$800,000,000.

There it is, I thought. Eight hundred million. More than Sterling Hotels can justify. More than Edward ever planned to spend.

And we’re not done yet.

The screens flared brighter, the number seeming to pulse with significance.

The room exhaled collectively, the tension easing fractionally.

Valentina gripped the rostrum, steadying herself.

Amanda stood motionless, paddle at her side, expression calm. Only I could see the slight tremor in her hand, the rapid pulse at her throat.

The battle was approaching its climax.

The rotunda trembled with anticipation. Every breath seemed amplified, every small movement magnified. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the kind of tension that comes right before a storm breaks.

The screens glowed at $800,000,000, the number seeming to pulse with its own heartbeat, casting the room in stark light.

The air was thick with expensive perfume mixing with nervous sweat, the metallic taste of adrenaline, the heat of too many bodies in formal wear under too many lights.

Valentina stood at the rostrum, knuckles white as she gripped the walnut edge. Her scarlet silk clung to her frame, damp with perspiration.

"Eight hundred... going once..."

Silence stretched. Heavy. Oppressive.

The chandelier swayed almost imperceptibly, crystals singing their high note.

Eyes turned.

All of them.

Al-Fahd. Tanaka. Silva. Omar. Hale.

Even the smaller players, half-exhausted, wide-eyed, shirts damp with sweat.

They stared at us.

At Amanda.

Let them look, I thought. Let them see the woman who’s been bidding with unlimited backing. Let them wonder where she came from and how deep her pockets go.

She’d already bid.

$790,000,000. Now, hovering at $800,000,000, every head had turned.

Recognition dawned in their eyes, slow and hungry. Amanda Wells. A name they would remember. A portfolio carved in money and power.

Elise and Theo Montclair stood at the dais edge, ivory chiffon and midnight tuxedo still pristine. Their eyes locked on Amanda, wide, grateful, almost reverent. The hotel had started at six hundred. Now eight hundred. They couldn’t be happier.

They should be, I thought. We’re about to give them an extra quarter billion on top of what they expected.

Valentina tried to speak.

"Going—"

Tanaka moved first.

His paddle rose with careful deliberation. His voice was cold, controlled.

"Eight-oh-one."

$801,000,000.

The screens updated smoothly.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath.

Edward raised his paddle, determination written across his features despite the visible strain. No wasn’t going to accept this.

"Eight-oh-two."

$802,000,000.

Omar’s paddle trembled as he raised it, voice barely above a whisper.

"Eight-oh-three."

$803,000,000.

Hale leaned forward, jaw set.

"Eight-oh-four."

$804,000,000.

Al-Fahd lifted his paddle with grim determination.

"Eight-oh-five."

$805,000,000.

The incremental climb continued, each bidder refusing to concede.

$830,000,000.

They’re bleeding themselves dry, I thought, watching the incremental crawl. Every million is pushing them to their limits. And they still don’t know we can go to 1.1 billion if we need to.

"EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION!"

Perfect, I thought. Fifty million under our ceiling. Dominant bid. Statement victory.

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