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

The mansion's driveway looked like a luxury car dealership having a full-blown identity crisis. Range Rovers lined up like obedient soldiers, the Rolls limo sat there catching the morning sun like it knew it was royalty, and Tommy's Mansory Aventador idled at the edge, purring low and violent, the kind of sound that didn't just say I'm expensive—it said I cost more than your house and I absolutely know it, damn well too.

The air smelled like fresh concrete, cold metal, and money that hadn't existed in their lives half a year ago.

Six months. That's all it took for the world to flip on its head.

Six months ago, Peter and Tommy were broke kids scrolling through car photos on cracked phones, dreaming out loud, pretending they weren't serious.

Back then, "luxury" meant the AC worked most of the time.

Now?

Now the driveway alone looked like a very expensive problem waiting to implode.

Peter stood on the front steps, hands shoved into his pockets, watching his worlds collide in the kind of organized chaos that only rich mornings seemed to have. Doors opening. Engines humming.

Voices overlapping. Sarah and Emma were already inside the Rolls limo—the Range Rover couldn't fit everyone anymore, which was both annoying as hell and a quiet flex he still hadn't emotionally processed.

Madison, Sofia, Lea, Kayla, and Mia followed, heels clicking on stone, hair perfect in that effortless way that took way too much effort.

The whole group looked like they were headed to some royal engagement or a Vogue shoot instead of Lincoln High School, and the absurdity of it all hit Peter right in the chest. High school. Same lockers.

Same bells.

Completely different universe.

Madison came first, obviously. She crossed the driveway like she owned the land, the house, and probably the air too.

Queen energy, zero apologies. She grabbed Peter by his shirt and kissed him hard—deep, possessive, no hesitation, the kind of kiss that said mine so loudly it didn't need subtitles.

Anyone watching knew exactly what that was.

Territory claimed. Message delivered.

Sofia followed, quieter but just as sure. Her kiss was softer, slower, carrying gratitude tangled up with relief, like she was still convincing herself that things were real, that she was safe. Healing looked like that sometimes—not dramatic, not clean, just small moments where you stopped bracing for impact.

She pulled back with a tiny smile that felt fragile and strong at the same time. Peter held it with care.

The twins didn't bother competing.

Sarah hugged him quick and tight, like she was afraid if she lingered too long something bad she was resisting would happen.

Emma went the opposite direction—full dramatic spin, arms around his neck, laughing like the world wasn't heavy at all.

It cracked something in him, pulled a laugh out of his chest even though everything else felt tight and sore. Lea and Kayla joined in, turning it into this oddly wholesome group hug that would've looked cute as hell if anyone actually knew the context.

Mia hugged him too—quick, genuine—but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and that part stuck.

"Glad you're okay," she said quietly.

Peter nodded, because what do you even say to that? He'd been shot. She'd watched it happen. Everyone had. That thing doesn't just disappear. It lingers. Like smoke.

Tommy waited by the Aventador, hands shoved in his pockets, pretending he wasn't watching the whole thing like a man on death row waiting for his name to be called.

When the limo doors finally shut, he walked over, face tight, eyes tired in that way money doesn't fix.

"Yo," Tommy said, glancing at the disappearing limo, then back at Peter. "Need to talk. Like—now. Quick."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "That tone never means anything good."

"Mia and I are fighting." Tommy exhaled hard. "About… you know. The shooting."

Peter felt something sink in his chest. "Tommy—"

"She gets why I ran to my mom first," Tommy rushed on, words tumbling out like he was afraid they'd rot if he kept them inside. "Said she understands. Said we're both mommy's boys and she can't change that shit. But—" He stopped, swallowed. "She's pissed I didn't think about her at all. Like my brain just hard-reset and she didn't exist."

Ah. Yeah. Peter knew that feeling. Crisis tunnel vision.

The world narrowing down to one flashing red priority while everything else turned to static and noise: mothers!

"She's not wrong," Peter said carefully.

"I know." Tommy's shoulders sagged. "And I don't even know how to fix it, man. How do you apologize for your brain just… breaking when shit goes bad?"

Peter studied him—his best friend, still the same idiot at heart, just richer now. "You can't change instinct. But you can admit it hurt her. Say you fucked up. And promise to try harder next time."

"Next time?" Tommy laughed, hollow and sharp. "I'm praying there is no next time, bro. Por favor."

"Yeah." Peter's hand drifted to his chest without thinking, fingers brushing the spot where the bullet had kissed him. "Me too."

Tommy's eyes followed the movement, and something in him cracked. "Fuck, man. You actually got shot. Like—real life, not movie shit. And I just ran past you."

"To save your mom," Peter said, firm. "Which was the right call. I had people. She needed you."

"But Mia needed me too, and I forgot."

"Then tell her that." Peter straightened. "Tell her you fucked up. Say sorry like you mean it. Then actually do better. That's it. That's the whole playbook."

Tommy nodded, miserable but listening. "Yeah. Yeah… okay."

He climbed into the Aventador, the engine snarling to life like it was pissed at the world too. Peter watched him take off—too fast, too loud, tires biting pavement like control was something you could grab with both hands and refuse to let go.

Peter stayed on the steps a moment longer, mansion looming behind him, empty driveway ahead.

The Rolls limo followed more sedately, because of course it did—gliding away like it had manners, dignity, and a retirement plan.

The twins waved wildly from the back window, faces pressed to the glass like excited puppies who'd just discovered wealth and air conditioning at the same time. Then the limo turned the corner and disappeared down the street, taking the noise, the engines, and the chaos with it.

And just like that—quiet.

The expensive, unsettling kind of quiet. The kind that made the driveway feel too big and the house feel like it was holding its breath, heavy with the lingering scent of her perfume from last night still clinging to the air, mixing with the faint musk of her body that always seemed to follow her like a secret.

Peter turned to head back inside and almost walked straight into Linda.

She stood in the doorway in her pajamas—thin cotton shorts riding high on her thighs, the soft fabric clinging to the generous curve of her hips; a loose tank top that dipped low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, nipples faintly visible through the worn material in the morning chill.

Coffee mug clutched in both hands like it was emotional support.

Her hair was a mess, the good kind—wild, tousled waves framing her face, begging to be tangled in fingers.

And her eyes were wet.

Just… full. Watching him. Standing there. Alive. Vertical. Her gaze lingered a beat too long on his chest, his arms, the line of his jaw—like she was drinking him in, memorizing the shape of the man her little boy had become.

"Mom—"

She set the coffee mug down on the entrance table with a soft clink, her hands trembling just enough to betray the storm inside her.

Then she crossed the space between them and walk-run straight into his arms—no hesitation, her body pressing flush against his, soft breasts crushing against his chest, hips slotting instinctively into place as if they'd always belonged there.

Face buried in his shirt, her warm breath seeping through the fabric to his skin, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat as she inhaled him like oxygen.

Peter wrapped his arms around her automatically, pulling her closer, one hand sliding low on her back, fingers splaying over the warm dip just above the curve of her ass, feeling the heat of her body through the thin cotton.

He felt her tremble—small, full-body shivers she tried to hide, her hips shifting subtly against him, the soft press of her lower belly against the front of his jeans.

She did not try to pretend she did not want again...

"I'm okay," he murmured into her hair, voice rougher than he intended, lips brushing the silky strands as he breathed in the familiar scent of her—vanilla, skin, and something deeper, something that made his blood run hotter.

"I'm right here. I'm fine. Still annoyingly alive."

"I know," she whispered, voice muffled against his chest, lips moving against his shirt in a way that sent heat straight down his spine. "I know you are. But every time you leave—every time I see you standing there saying goodbye—my body just… remembers."

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into his shirt, nails scraping lightly over his skin beneath. "It plays on loop. And I just need—" Her hips pressed forward again, a slow, involuntary roll that dragged the soft heat between her thighs against him.

"I need to feel that you're real. That you're warm. That you're here."