Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1004: Unexpected At the Estate 2

Patt, who hadn't set foot on the estate yet. Who never reached out to me. Who ignored every attempt I made to contact her.

I consulted ARIA.

ARIA replied in her special tone, the one where 'patience' stood as a courteous stand-in for a much more intricate truth.

So I allowed her all the time she needed. Gentle nudges from a distance—a quick message, a minor token here and there.

Not smothering. Not forceful.

But refusing to fade away completely. Treading the fine line between distance and abandonment with the precision reserved for disarming explosives, and I vowed to navigate it with extreme care.

Patt deserved that level of forbearance.

The most unyielding women always do. Above all when they start realizing they don't need to conquer every fight by themselves.

Among all my adult lovers, the toughest remained Margaret.

Fine—'tough' exaggerated it. Margaret lacked stubbornness. She embodied caution.

Cautious in particular about Charlotte.

Her daughter.

The very woman smitten with me, unaware her mother carries my baby.

Margaret was with child. Extremely so. Yet she hadn't made the revelation.

She hadn't shared our romance with Charlotte. Hadn't mentioned the pregnancy.

Our stolen moments happened in the guest mansion.

Or at the estate while Charlotte worked—clandestine hours we both grew weary of concealing but remained too wary to expose.

Those afternoons when sunlight filtered in despite everything, and we feigned normalcy in handling such a hazardous liaison with kid gloves.

And private dates.

Absolutely, I shared numerous private dates with each of my three pregnant beauties—

They demanded group time, hauling me along, given their kids would be near the same age... they aimed to ignite the bond right away.

Pre-delivery. Pre-names. Pre-society's judgments on our tangled lives.

The mothers bonded while babies grew inside. They formed an ironclad link among themselves—a sisterhood tempered by common urges, mutual grumbles, mutual marvel at the lunacy of all three knocked up by one guy simultaneously and totally okay with it.

The deranged ARIA even promised to align their deliveries near-simultaneously if they wished.

That no one shut her down revealed the wild world we'd embraced.

Dominique and Catherine joined these mommy meetups when available—hauling meals, easing sore feet, delivering the no-nonsense help that battle-tested women provide on instinct.

I generally skipped their gatherings.

It became their territory.

Hallowed turf that excluded me naturally.

But against my predictions, Catherine wasn't demanding my seed for a child.

She kept delivering her tireless, solid backing to the trio—scheduling medical appointments, juggling calendars, acting as the operational spine for a mess that'd crush anyone weaker.

If motherhood called to her, she buried the urge deep.

And when Catherine hid a desire, it emerged solely on her schedule, never earlier.

Dominique bore that expression often, though.

The one that screamed

She'd steal glances at the expectant moms, a flicker of tender yearning in her gaze—swiftly suppressed—then peek at her phone, letting the instant slip away.

One day. Not now.

Today had come.

Paris.

This evening itself, we'd jet to the Ghost Mansion, where ARIA completed—whatever mad genius project she'd wrapped up.

The jet transformation.

The obsession she'd poured manic, god-tier fervor into, deeming standard flying inadequate and ripe for total reinvention.

I had zero idea what that stunning maniac wrought.

All I grasped was she'd snapped up two aircraft—one for Meridian Agency, plain, utilitarian, pure business machine.

The other dragged to Ghost Mansion and rebuilt. From A to Z.

Torn to its frame and reconceived as a marvel that likely defied nature and surely broke aviation treaties worldwide.

I eagerly awaited the reveal. That cocktail of thrill and dread from every ARIA masterpiece—the assurance of brilliance matched by the guarantee of unhinged chaos.

Though evening reigned, the day stretched far from done.

Vanessa and I pulled up home. Side by side.

In that hushed glow post-passion, post-confession,

that rendered the space between us vibrantly renewed.

I nursed a carton of strawberries—grabbed during the drive back.

I entered via the front door.

And froze.

Luna lingered in the living room, awaiting me.

Yet not solo.

Next to her—identical height, matching features, a likeness transcending family into pure genetic blueprint—stood another female.

Older.

But 'older' pulled massive, utterly misleading duty here, since she resembled Luna fast-forwarded to showcase her genes at ultimate bloom.

Dr. Maria.

Luna's mom.

No advance notice came. Not from Luna. Not ARIA. Not one soul in my vast web of women who track my every second with precision. Zero alerts.

Not a hint.

None at all.

The strawberry pack slid from my hand.

The Homebot intercepted it—flawless, quiet, impeccable—ensuring no berry touched ground. It clutched the carton firmly and ferried it silently to the kitchen surface.

At least one resident here retained perfect reactions.

Mine had evaporated.

Fuck.

She burned with allure.

Not the Luna-brand hotness, a league apart.

No mere echo of her daughter's appeal.

This scorched independently, self-contained, perfected hotness—tempered by decades and savvy into a allure no novice frame could match, unearned.

Dr. Maria loomed in my estate's living room, eyeing me with Luna's eyes but profounder, Luna's lips but worldlier, Luna's build but Latina-plumper—and my brain, chugging at bare-minimum output since Vanessa mounted me hours prior, flatlined completely.

Fuck! She’s HOT!