Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1029: The Harem Bus

From the van window she had already staked out, Margaret exploded into laughter. Patricia cracked next—a fissure in her poise that blossomed into a hearty guffaw she attempted to smother with her palm but utterly failed.

Celeste chimed in, her lively, melodic giggle ringing out over the entire driveway.

Not until the laughs broke loose did Emma grasp that she had blurted it aloud—her thumb locking in place while scrolling, eyes bulging wide, mouth dropping into a tiny O as the full weight of her words hit home.

Mom called out, yet Emma was bolting away, phone gripped tight, cackling as she raced to the van with the shameless vibe of a daughter convinced her mom wouldn't truly end her and ready to probe that conviction to the max.

Mom's belly—plump and obvious now, bearing my baby—jiggled faintly as she lunged a step after Emma, only to halt, one palm cradling her tummy, the other stabbing toward the van in that fierce mom wrath belonging to a lady too pregnant for a chase but never too pregnant to hold a grudge.

"You won’t, Ma!" Emma's shout echoed from the van's interior, already barricaded by smoked glass, already secure, already beaming with triumph.

Sarah exhaled—a profound, exhausted breath carrying the wisdom of the responsible twin who had preached this for years and long since surrendered to the family's selective hearing—before climbing aboard. "I keep warning them they spoil Emma excessively. But nobody pays me any mind, right?"

No one replied. The quiet itself confirmed it all.

The van's interior surpassed the exterior. Surpassed it for the better.

ARIA had eyed the idea of road travel and deemed it a direct affront to her elite benchmarks.

A vast expanse unfolded within, far too grand for any wheeled contraption—spacious, stretched out, awash in subtle ambient glows that throbbed gently along the floor in cool white bands, drawing gazes down a middle walkway lined with chairs that defied the label.

Those were thrones.

White leather, quilted and diamond-patterned, featuring armrests packed with touchscreen panels for temp control, illumination, kneading functions, and media options.

Every throne came equipped with its own personal table—ebony wood gleaming like a mirror—with elegant crystal stemware prepped and icy water droplets forming on bottles fit for luxury resorts, not highway haulers.

Above hung a chandelier-esque fixture—myriad fiber-optic filaments tumbling from a concealed slot, each twinkling solo to weave a veil of gentle, dancing radiance that transformed the space into a cosmic chamber.

A gigantic curved monitor commanded the back bulkhead, airing a hyper-clear overhead view of the upcoming path, sharp enough to mimic a portal to a superior realm.

Ebony accents bordered walls and roof to sync with the tables, accented by satin chrome slabs and adjustable smoked glass panes that tinted or brightened on command.

Silver-and-charcoal throw pillows nestled in each throne.

Heated flooring warmed the soles. The atmosphere carried a blend of crisp sheets and midnight jasmine—ARIA's custom scent, since no earthly ride ever wafted this luxuriously without intent.

The back featured a cordoned-off nook—heavy charcoal velvet drapes, fully insulated against noise—housing a real bedroom with a genuine queen bed, covers neatly peeled back.

ARIA seemed to insist that Peter Carter's ground journeys demanded the chance to recline flat. Or indulge his harem flat-out, if desired.

ARIA excelled at foreseeing my every whim.

My ladies swarmed inside, their delighted noises repaying every dime ARIA shelled out.

Genevieve seized my arm and breathed, "I take back everything I said about the penthouse being impressive."

Margaret sank into her throne, tapped the massage feature mere seconds after settling, and shut her eyes. Bliss, she murmured to the air. Patricia claimed the spot next to Margaret. Tweaked the back support. Probed the table and positioned her water precisely. Content. She had a knack for molding any space to her ideal just by occupying it right.

Charlotte eyed the chandelier, shot me a glance, then stared back up. "This is obscene, Peter."

"Thank you."

"That wasn’t a compliment."

"I’m taking it as one."

Amanda flipped open her laptop on the extending desk and dove into work before the van stirred.

She spared the lavish setup a fleeting look, muttered "nice," and plunged back into Liberation Holdings’ next-day earnings forecasts that T.AGI crunched for our trades. The woman was a trading maniac, utterly ignoring chandeliers in favor of her deals.

Madison strolled down the aisle, her fingers gliding over the padded leather, scrutinizing the fine crystalware, trying out the digital controls with the discerning gaze of a sovereign evaluating her empire's latest prize.

She uttered not a word. That silence proclaimed its flawlessness, and she'd perish first before conceding that ARIA had nailed it with the van.

Lila picked a spot midway, near Emma's seat but not right beside it, drew her legs under her, petite and hushed, gazing at the others' reactions with the wide-eyed awe of someone still grasping that this lavish existence was now hers.

Vanessa settled next to her — ever drawn to Lila, ever pulled toward the reserved souls — and they exchanged a glance that conveyed everything without a single utterance.

Luna claimed a seat, donned her headphones, and drifted off in less than ninety seconds. Maria slid in beside her — pressed close, shoulders touching — and observed her daughter slumbering with a look I knew intimately, one I'd displayed myself outside Rory’s school merely three hours earlier.

The van eased away from the driveway. Hushed. Seamless. Gliding with such poise that its building-like bulk faded from mind.

My women. One goddess. One guy who'd kicked off the year as a picked-on boy from Lincoln Heights, too strapped to repair his bike chain.

Ghost Mansion. Then Paris.

Let’s go.