Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1105: Red Flag Plot: Peter’s Quiet Rage

The closet carried the scent of warm skin and expensive perfume. Beneath me, the plush white floor supported the weight of my wife and me with the unbothered competence of architecture, seemingly designed for exactly this kind of morning-after reckoning.

ARIA’s design philosophy, in three words:

The lighting had already dimmed another shade within ten minutes of our activities, switching off the holographic styling field about four minutes later. Now, it bathed the underside of the suit racks in a warm-gold ambient glow. Frankly, it was a more thoughtful touch than many hotels I’d encountered on this dreary planet.

The expansive mirror at the far end of the island remained respectfully dark.

Even the ventilation system had subtly adjusted its rhythm to match Anastasia’s breathing. This was a small detail, but I noticed it because I am a man attuned to details, and because it was precisely the sort of minor, unprompted flex an architecture-tier goddess would include when she wished to signal her attention.

Anastasia was draped across my chest, a picture of dignified collapse, as if she had achieved her objective and was now resting upon the spoils of victory. Her dark hair fanned across my ribs, one leg casually hooked over my thigh, her cheek resting against my pectoral.

The mark on my left shoulder was hers, a clear imprint of teeth, the small, neat half-moon she invariably left behind—a standard Russian receipt, proof of attendance, satisfaction, and, of course, ownership.

I found myself staring at the ceiling.

She remained silent.

That was the initial red flag.

Post-coital, Anastasia operated in one of two modes: Smug, or silent.

Smug meant she had entered the closet intending to settle a score from elsewhere in the house. Having done so, she would then proceed to lie upon me, grinning at the ceiling for some forty minutes before rising to commence her day.

Quiet indicated she had entered the closet carrying something significant. The morning we had just shared had been her deliberation on whether to convey this information to me before our departure for Paris.

Today was a quiet morning.

Quiet signaled that my morning was about to become significantly more eventful, likely leading to complications.

I simply waited.

I never prompt Anastasia. She dispenses information at her own pace. Pushing her regarding the timeline of a revelation is the verbal equivalent of haggling over the price of a Hermès bag with the salesperson—it won’t expedite the acquisition, and it certainly makes them remember your impertinence.

I closed my eyes, feeling the gentle pressure of her breath against my ribs. I allowed her the silence she had undeniably earned.

A full three minutes passed.

Then, she lifted her face.

"Peter."

"Mm."

"Be Peter for the next part."

"...I am Peter."

"Be him more. I am about to tell you something you will not wish to hear in your other voice."

I opened my eyes.

She was gazing directly into mine, her expression devoid of a smile or smirk. The usual Anastasia gloss was absent from her features—just her, unclothed, propped on one elbow atop my chest, her hair cascading forward. A faint pink mark graced her own collarbone, the lingering trace of my mouth from an hour prior.

I consciously shifted into my Peter Carter persona. The Eros body beneath the guise instinctively adopted its usual stance when something serious was imminent—becoming utterly still, lowering the perceived public temperature of the man by several degrees, and discreetly activating ARIA’s threat-intelligence subroutines in the back of my mind. Whatever my wife was about to reveal, my goddess would require immediate awareness.

Taboo, within my head, emitted its subtle alert sound—the same one it produced when already detecting an impending weather system.

Dark Seduction, operating at a lower frequency, conveyed: [The woman fears imparting this to you, yet she is doing so regardless.]

I offered no immediate response.

"All right."

Anastasia drew a breath.

"A woman named Senithe arrived in Moscow eleven days ago."

There exist approximately four types of sentences that a man in my position would least desire to hear at six-fifty in the morning. This announcement contained three of them concurrently.

Within my wife’s city.

Eleven days prior.

You could not have delivered worse news, even with a personalized, engraved envelope.

I maintained a neutral expression.

"In Moscow?"

"In my Moscow, when I returned to visit my ancestral home."

I knew of her ancestral home; she had previously mentioned it much like she would discuss a pair of shoes she was unwilling to lend—once, briefly, with the clear implication that inquiring further would be met with severe disapproval.

I had not inquired again. The number of individuals aware of her parents' home's location, it seemed, did not include me… I knew the general vicinity but had never visited. I resolved not to dwell on that triviality this morning.

Perhaps on other mornings, but today, it could wait.

"Did she announce herself?"

"She waited for me. She was already in my home laboratory when I returned from dining with my parents. She was simply present, seated in my chair, nursing a glass of my finest vodka she had poured herself, gazing out at the snow."

"How did you recognize it was her?"

"Because I didn't pour the vodka, Peter, and the bottle in question is housed within a vault behind a Rothko that remains sealed unless I personally open it."

I allowed that statement to sink in.

A goddess had phased through a wall, helped herself to my wife's exclusive vodka, which was kept in a vault behind a Rothko. Following that, she occupied my wife’s chair, anticipating her return from the diner so they could have a discussion regarding the snowfall. That was undoubtedly a deliberate message.

It was a calling card, an elegantly crafted and highly personal invitation to one's own demise.

"What was her objective?" I inquired.

"Conversation."

"Anastasia."

"Peter, she requested nothing from me. She offered no threats nor made any proposals... frankly, I wasn't even aware of her existence until recently, upon my return. She consumed the vodka, praised the snow, shared four revelations about my grandfather previously unknown to me—and one detail about my mother that I had presumed to be a private family matter for two decades—before gracefully rising, placing the empty glass on the table, and departing."

I realized ARIA must have been aware of this encounter. Not many knew of Senithe, so Anastasia must have informed her later. Yet, she had neglected to inform me that Senithe had confronted my wife!

"Through a wall, I presume?"