Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 948: Karma’s Double-Edged Sword

Karma didn't merely act as a bitch targeting Peter's foes—occasionally, she appeared before him too, outfitted lethally and armed with proof against everybody.

The cosmos possesses a twisted humor along with impeccable timing.

Heels striking the marble surface echoed first.

A single crisp click. Followed by a second. Then the steady beat—intentional, leisurely, the stride of a female who had always entered any space fully ready and utterly confident in her place there.

That shouldn't have pierced the background chatter in a gallery crowded with tycoons and lavish talks on artwork few truly grasped. Hundreds filled the place. Scores of ladies in high-end heels costing more than my mother's entire monthly paycheck.

Yet these heels stood apart.

The whole gathering sensed it prior to anyone glancing back.

Aurelia Royce’s frosty aura drew every gaze without effort—without her having to pose like certain females at doorways or tilt toward optimal light as if chasing the ideal photo for social media influencers.

She simply entered, and the damn room realigned itself to accommodate her being.

Aurelia Royce grasped a truth many never learn: presence isn't something you project.

You possess it or lack it entirely.

This lady owned it in abundance.

Black velvet draped to the ground—a dress trailing like a regal mantle, asymmetrical with one shoulder exposed and a plunging sweetheart neckline that dipped just enough to seem deliberate while rising sufficiently to deliver crushing impact.

A bold red stripe accented the tall side slit, matching the vivid crimson draping her uncovered shoulder, resembling a blend of style choice and a bold declaration of battle.

Red against black. So fitting for her.

The velvet clung to her form, molding to each contour as premium material does when tailored exclusively for one woman, whom no other could pull off. Her breasts filled the bodice flawlessly.

Her hips completed the gown.

The overall outline inspired painters to grab brushes and builders to question their life's work.

If she failed to rank among the room's most striking figures—then "breathtaking" ought to get scrapped for a better term.

Such as "striding disaster in designer finery."

Her locks formed a complex updo likely demanding technical expertise and a squad of stylists, with select wisps precisely placed to highlight features suited for classic masterpieces in galleries where visitors spoke in hushed awe.

Cheekbones sharp as shattered glass. Plump lips coated in deep burgundy akin to fine vintage. Eyes of glacial blue appearing nearly transparent under some lights, as if all heat had been drained and swapped with frozen gas.

She dazzled. She threatened. And she was totally, utterly uninvited.

Precisely what the night required—business rivalry in formal attire.

Those eyes swept the space once.

Only once. Perhaps four or five seconds—evaluating paths out, spotting groups, gauging influences, deciding true players from mere costly ornaments.

Her stare locked onCharlotte Thompson.

A smirk curved Aurelia’s lips.

Far from the hesitant, timid grin of someone who'd uttered awful remarks on global broadcasts and endured a year of remorse over it.

Nowhere near that.

This curve held ancient depth beyond kindness. Edgier than regret. The precise glee of a female who'd crunched the numbers prior to arrival and discovered the result right where anticipated.

She arrived aware Charlotte would attend. No accident here—pure strategy.

Sadly for Charlotte Thompson, she lingered close to the doorway as Aurelia Royce glided into the auction venue like a personification of frost bent on ruining the night's vibe for all.

Amanda Torres witnessed the unfolding.

Positioned across the hall during Aurelia's arrival—engaged with an investor of the night, likely chatting earnings forecasts or the topics elites broach at such venues—and she detected the vibe change before pinpointing its origin.

That distinct shift in focus when true authority steps in and alters the atmosphere completely.

Similar to a top predator approaching the water source, reminding other creatures of their vulnerability.

Amanda pivoted, located the cause, and approached Celeste in three quick strides.

"Did you invite her?" Amanda's tone held a sharpness implying dismissal or worse loomed, or perhaps both.

Celeste traced Amanda’s line of sight to the velvet-clad chill approaching. A flicker passed over her features—not fear, as Celeste Beaumont avoided such reactions, but her poised facade showed a faint crack.

In other words:

"I... no. I don’t even know who that is."

Likely the least helpful reply imaginable.

Amanda spun toward Helena, positioned close by in the poised manner of one schooled by spy networks to evaluate risks while seeming utterly relaxed.

Helena remained fixed since the heels first struck stone. She'd observed Aurelia from the start—had noted her, gauged her risk, performed Helena's usual assessments for peril in luxury garb—and her face now reflected the steady assurance of someone jaded by decades of witnessing extremes.

Her expert vision already charted dangers and escapes, simulating combat plans far bloodier than this upscale affair could handle.

She recognized Aurelia Royce precisely—knew the tale of business battles, identified the figure who toppled firms via paperwork kills masked as rule enforcement.

Naturally, Helena maintained dossiers on all. That's her method.

"She wasn’t on the invitation list," Helena stated softly, her tone that steady professionalism signaling rising chaos. "I checked every attendee myself. Aurelia Royce got no invite."

Thus, she'd infiltrated like a suited saboteur with impeccable fashion sense.

"Then how the hell did she enter?" Amanda demanded, her leader poise fraying just enough to hint at impending firings in security.

Solid query. A top-notch one demanding swift response.

Aurelia’s grin expanded slightly as her glacial gaze spotted Charlotte opposite—not friendly, not remorseful, not overtly vicious.

Merely... aware. Content. The grin of one clutching hidden advantages.

Her aide had relayed Charlotte's response when Aurelia’s team sought a sit-down last week. Those precise phrases, voiced with Charlotte Thompson’s typical directness: "Tell them to go to hell."

Perhaps those words jogged Aurelia’s recall of her actions against Charlotte Thompson.

Yet if Charlotte believed Aurelia arrived to apologize, plead for talks, or plead mercy like a changed antagonist chasing absolution—

She erred profoundly, entirely.

Aurelia Royce never pleads. It clashes with her image.

Aurelia ignored Charlotte Thompson entirely.

Her purpose was Senithe.

had directed her to this auction. Aurelia learned only lately of the gallery owner's tie to Charlotte Thompson—and frankly? The overlap meant nothing to her.

At such heights, chance meetings merely disguise chances.

No begging from her. Not when she could seize her true goal and force Charlotte Thompson to kneel soon via total market control.

Her glacial gaze roamed the hall once more with hunter's focus, bypassing groups of affluent fools debating misunderstood pieces, until settling on her true mark.

Senithe.

Placed in a dim corner at the rear, tucked into obscurity like one aware genuine influence shuns spotlights. Observing all with the enduring poise of a strategist positioning unseen game tokens.

Aurelia’s red-accented slit gleamed per step as she navigated the throng, heels echoing with lethal intent, directing toward the dim area holding the room's true might.

Everyone remaining served as lavish backdrop.

Charlotte remained immobile, eyeing her rival glide by as if invisible.

As mere decor. Mere murmur. Unrelated to Aurelia’s real scheme.

And in that icy instant, Charlotte grasped a profoundly alarming truth: Aurelia Royce hadn't arrived to battle her, let alone seek pardon, truce, or prolong their business clash.

She'd come because a far deadlier force than them both summoned her for an entirely separate contest.