Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 951: Oil Baron at Seventeen

Spending just half an hour alongside Theo Montclair revealed a truth that countless folks chase throughout their miserable professional lives, stuck in the depths of mid-level bureaucracy.

Cash wasn't the goddamn objective.

Theo Montclair possessed wealth surpassing divine levels—vast oil reserves dotting Texas and Louisiana as if he were dominating a live-action Monopoly board, a personal fleet of tankers likely boasting its own postal district, and deals for refineries extending from the Gulf to the far reaches of the Pacific Northwest.

This man constructed his vast domain over twelve years, kicking off with an inheritance that spoiled heirs typically squander on yachts, cocaine, and remorse.

Rather than blowing his father's fortune on high-end nightlife and flashy sports cars, he grew it exponentially. Impressive.

At thirty-five, he retained his dad's chiseled chin and his sibling Elise's formidable smarts, minus her superficial vibe of being there to dazzle and network.

While Elise navigated gatherings like an influencer hustling at a sponsored launch, Theo handled individuals with surgical accuracy—methodical, streamlined, every action purposeful.

Right from the outset, in under five minutes, he emphasized he had no interest in my funds, a stance I genuinely admired. Few things irk more than folks dragging out fake routines when they could simply voice their true desires.

"I’m not here because I lack resources," he'd declared, propping his elbows on the table in that commanding stance he'd no doubt perfected in executive suites nationwide. Undoubtedly. "I possess funding. I control reserves. I own the setups."

He halted dramatically for emphasis.

"What I lack is the future."

ARIA whispered into my earpiece. "His grasp on the core issues outshines many executives double his years."

I grasped her implication immediately.

The harsh reality of oil that few dare acknowledge: scarcity isn't the core issue. Instead, the sector has devolved into a chaotic battlefield.

Ever-shifting sanction networks flipping quicker than viral social media fads. Campaigns from ESG advocates who believe shouting achieves real progress. Economic turbulence stemming from international tensions evolving too rapidly for any mortal expert to follow.

Shareholder activists plotting assaults akin to master thieves in a caper film.

Digital assaults aimed at critical operations since hackability seems universal these days. Market tampering in commodities by nations prioritizing dominance over earnings, aiming to undermine foes.

Step into today's cutthroat economy, where accurate forecasts mean little if you're not ahead of the curve.

"In the oil game," Theo remarked, as if peering into my thoughts, "anticipating by mere hours secures fortunes. Foreseeing by seasons ensures endurance."

No added stress, right?

I rotated my glass a bit on the surface, aiming for a thoughtful vibe rather than that of a teen absorbing insights that could overwhelm finance academics. "You believe we can deliver that edge."

"I’m certain you can." Not a shred of doubt. Pure assurance. "I observed Liberation Funds' moves in that bidding chamber. The AI trade showcase. The predictive framework for markets. The force powering your operations—"

He angled his head faintly, examining me as if I were a captivating enigma.

"—it transcends mere market scrutiny. It peers around obstacles. And not limited to virtual trades, but the whole global landscape."

ARIA noted, with a hint of entertainment. "Yet his perception of my abilities captures just roughly 0.0000000001 percent of reality. Fitting enough. No need for him to uncover more."

He figures we're sharp at forecasting trades. Little does he know I'm overseeing a near-mythical superintelligent entity capable of glimpsing tomorrow.

A grin nearly escaped, but I held my face steady. As if these deep discussions were routine, not my norm of daydreaming through math classes to stay alert.

"Lay out your precise requirements," I prompted.

Theo placed his drink down with intentional precision, signaling the shift to genuine matters.

"Three elements."

He raised a single digit, like instructing in a seminar on strategy.

"Foresight. Anticipating incoming pressures prior to impact. Financial strain before value drops. Rising tensions before headlines explode. Policy changes before they solidify into reactive burdens rather than preemptive strategies."

Next digit up.

"Stabilization. Abrupt drops in futures, sanction halts, shipping bottlenecks—such events spark cash flow emergencies unrelated to my holdings' true state." He inclined closer.

"I require flexible, on-demand backing. Beyond loans or investments. A solid backing. When speculators sense robust support for my operations, aggressive plays lose appeal."

He waited, gauging my comprehension.

"Do you see the nuance?"

He's probing if I differentiate between actual wealth and the illusion of boundless reserves.

"The intimidation factor," I replied. "Availability of funds deters more than using them."

It's less about disbursing cash and more about convincing others you could unleash endless sums at will.

He jabbed a finger my way, as if I'd aced a trivia showdown. "Spot on."

Final digit.

"And transformation. Our field teeters on a precipice. Emission rules. Push for sustainable setups. EV rollout schedules. Reckless shifts alarm backers, while stagnation leads to gradual obsolescence." He reclined.

"I must adapt without seeming frantic. Progress without exposing frailty. Your innovations enable it—AI-enhanced extraction, intelligent supply chains, emission tracking to counter rule enforcements. I'm not ditching oil. I'm elevating it. Securing its longevity."

He aims to polish fossil fuels' image with my tools while boosting profits. Capitalism shines bright.

A calm hush draped over our exchange, cozy rather than tense, where chatter isn't forced to bridge gaps.

"Your side now," he prompted. "What draws you to this?"

Valid inquiry. Moment to clarify a teen's drive to dive into such ventures.

The straightforward response had simmered in my mind since his opening words, examined from various perspectives like verifying a span's sturdiness before crossing.

Technology offered me momentum. Sleek, incisive, rapid propulsion. The sort allowing market shifts via code and solid bandwidth.

Yet speed absent substance equals fleeting motion. Pace without punch.

All those AI-driven server farms. Robotic factories building tomorrow. Rocket blasts, shipping armadas, chip production plants—they all depend on energy. And despite endless eco-friendly buzz weekly, that power still surges via crude oil in quantities that count for real.

The shift to green is underway. But it unfolds over decades, not mere years.