Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Spectacle, Sudden Interest

Here’s a valuable life lesson for any fellow nerds out there: never, under any circumstances, announce to your entire school that you’re packing heat downstairs. Because apparently, once you plant that image in the collective teenage brain, everyone becomes a fucking private investigator specializing in dick detection.

The moment I rolled up to Lincoln High on my ancient bike this morning—because yes, I’m still riding the same Trek I got for my thirteenth birthday while Jack Morrison drives a Tesla—every single person in the parking lot transformed into CSI: Crotch Division.

Eyes went straight to ground zero like they were expecting some kind of bulge-shaped confirmation of yesterday’s legendary meltdown.

Here’s where my morning went from embarrassing to apocalyptic: remember how my system "enhancement" took me from well-endowed to requiring a fucking architectural permit? Yeah, well, my existing wardrobe didn’t receive the upgrade memo. And I’m walking around with a situation that would make airport security uncomfortable, and my genius solution was strategic backpack placement.

Specifically, clutching my bag over my crotch like it weighed forty pounds and pretending this was totally normal human behavior.

This might have been the single dumbest idea in the history of terrible ideas, and I once thought it was smart to debate dick physics in public.

"Oh my GOD, he’s totally hiding it!"

"Bro, why is he carrying his bag like he’s smuggling contraband?"

"Is he seriously trying to stealth-mode his junk right now?"

"PETER’S PROTECTING THE NATIONAL TREASURE!"

And naturally, every phone in a fifty-foot radius is out, documenting my walk of shame like it’s breaking news on CNN. Because nothing screams "quality American education" like turning someone’s wardrobe crisis into TikTok gold.

"Yo, Carter! Stop being a pussy and show us the goods!"

"Don’t be shy, man! You already gave us the sales pitch!"

"Prove it or admit you’re full of shit!"

"We want evidence, not promises!"

Fantastic. Just absolutely fucking fantastic. Now I’m not just the smart nerd who got his brain rearranged by the quarterback—I’m the kid who claims to be packing and won’t provide photographic evidence. Which somehow makes me look even more pathetic than my baseline level of pathetic, and that’s saying something.

But here’s the weird plot twist that made this social crucifixion slightly less soul-destroying: people are definitely looking at me differently now.

It started at home during what I like to call "The Great Carter Family Stare-Down of Wednesday Morning." Mom kept glancing at me like I was some random guy who’d broken into her house and was cosplaying as her son. She’d look, do this confused double-take, then return to her coffee with the expression of someone trying to solve advanced calculus.

"Peter, did you... do something different? New haircut?"

"Nope."

"Contact lenses?"

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