Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 627

Chapter 627: Emperor?

She stopped.

Looked at their utterly destroyed expressions.

Then exploded into laughter.

Not a giggle. A full, ringing, joyous meltdown that echoed off the glass windows. She pulled both Isabella and Luna into a hug, still laughing. "I’m joking. Your faces were priceless."

The whole table exhaled like they’d been underwater. Then chaos burst into relieved laughter.

"That mean, Ms. Carter," Luna wheezed pouting cutely.

"I’m a mother," Linda replied. "Cruel pranks are part of the user manual."

The introductions rolled on—Rebecca with her calm poise, Dominique and Catherine with their refined warmth, Patricia (which led to a moment of ’oh god, not you too?’ followed by hugs), Reyna with her quiet grace. By the time the circle closed, Linda looked overwhelmed, glowing, and oddly proud.

Dinner unfolded in layered courses and soft candlelight. Wine loosened the tension. Conversations grew warmer, lighter, tangled with laughter. The city hummed beneath us like a giant waiting to be impressed.

Then Tommy stood up, glass in hand, grin stretching across his entire stupid face.

"Alright. Speech time. I’ve been practicing this for days."

The table went still, half of them bracing for poetic sincerity, the rest bracing for disaster.

"Peter Carter," Tommy began solemnly. "My best friend. My brother. The most ridiculous human being I’ve ever met."

He paused dramatically.

"Not too long ago, you got shoved in a trash can by Jack Morrison. You smelled like moldy cafeteria pizza for a week."

Groans. Chuckles.

"I sat next to you in Computer Science the whole time you smelled like a decomposing lasagna. And I still chose to be your friend. That is loyalty."

Laughter detonated across the table, rich and unrestrained, rolling into the candlelit air like confetti.

Tommy leaned into the moment like a man who had been waiting years to weaponize my childhood stupidity.

"When we were fifteen," he said, "you told me you had a system. Actual words: ’Tommy, I have a system.’"

The table perked up like a pack of gossiping ravens.

"I thought you meant a dating strategy. A flowchart, maybe. But no. Peter had engineered a full goddamn Pentagon-level romance algorithm. Color-coded notes. Probability calculations. A risk assessment matrix."

The old school crew—Lea, Kayla, Sofia, Sarah, Emma and Madison who’d witnessed that—were already dying.

"And he used this system," Tommy continued mercilessly, "to ask out Jessica. With a presentation."

Groans. Cackles. Someone choked on wine.

"You even had pie charts, Peter. Compatibility charts. For a fifteen-year-old girl who literally thought mitochondria were Italian desserts."

The table detonated.

I sipped my wine, the very image of a man accepting his fate. Internally, I was compiling new risk matrices. For murder.

"That’s how desperate he was," Tommy went on, full of affectionate spite. "Trying to create systems because he had no idea what the hell he was doing. And now look at him—" He gestured at the twenty women assembled like I was unveiling a new product line."Turns out you just needed a better girl like Madison to fix you."

Sure, Tommy. Definitely just Madison. Not the cosmic glitch, divine intervention, emotional Stockholm syndrome, and pure dumb luck that actually built this empire.

"To Peter!" Tommy raised his glass high. "The man who convinced me systems work when mine failed spectacularly. The man who looked at the universe and said ’fuck your rules.’ The man who somehow persuaded twenty incredible women to share space, time, and sanity with him."

His grin softened into something real. "You’re my brother. And I’m proud of you. Happy birthday, you magnificent bastard."

The table erupted. "TO PETER!"

"TO OUR EMPEROR!"

"TO FAMILY!"

Sofia shrugged. "Honestly... yeah."

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