Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 954: Art Warfare

When Rich People Turn Art Into Warfare

The auction's competition had begun to intensify right before Aurelia Royce decided to act.

She refrained from simply lifting her paddle. Instead of modestly proposing the subsequent in line with the implicit norms of bidding decorum like the others,

she settled into a plush seat close to the front, exuding the assurance of a person ready to halt a conflict before it escalated, and declared in a tone that echoed through the whole exhibition space:

A total hush fell over the room for roughly three seconds—that loaded interval when every mind scrambles to reassess what the hell had occurred.

By bumping the offer up by half a million dollars in a single stroke, she wasn't merely joining the auction—she was asserting supremacy. Laying the groundwork. Signaling plainly that she had no intention of engaging in trivial step-by-step increases.

Aurelia Royce just shelled out two million for my artwork as if it were a morning brew. The business shark has now joined the fray.

Celeste's practiced grin expanded into a truly thrilled expression. Such excitement was what turned auction venues into myths.

With that performative zeal in her tone, Celeste proclaimed.

Oh, things are on the verge of turning utterly wild.

For an instant, quiet lingered in the atmosphere as attendees digested if they truly wished to challenge a bidder who'd so nonchalantly tossed in two million.

Then, a fellow at the rear—evidently some petroleum mogul sporting a timepiece pricier than vehicles—lifted his paddle.

And now the chase begins.

A lady in the middle section, adorned with gems shouting "technology fortune," responded without delay.

She leaped ahead by three hundred thousand as though it were spare cash. The elite truly are

From the flank came another call—masculine, assured, likely carrying the vibe of investment trading.

Positioned beside her sibling Theo, Elise Montclair lifted her paddle with the effortless poise of one accustomed to such events from infancy.

she stated, her words infused with that elite academy refinement.

The Montclair sibling has now stepped into the battle. The spectacle improved with every passing moment.

The offers kept surging higher amid the intense rivalry that thrilled auction organizers and alarmed financial experts.

A fresh bidder spoke up—perhaps a technology leader? The sort who viewed this as a display of influence rather than a mere acquisition of artwork.

Four million bucks for a canvas depicting my and inner emptiness. This evening is either the peak of my existence or evidence that the wealthy have totally gone mad.

Seated amid Charlotte and Madison, I observed the conflict play out with the sort of aloof intrigue typically saved for wildlife films showing beasts clashing over domain.

Charlotte tilted toward me a bit, whispering softly. "They're not just purchasing the piece."

"I know," I replied in a low voice.

Beneath the table, Madison's fingers intertwined with mine, giving a soft press. Her gaze gleamed with the thrill of seeing her partner's creation appraised in the millions.

My partner was thrilled by the sight of affluent folks battling for my emotional issues captured in oils. This bond is ideal.

The offers pressed onward in their ascent.

The petroleum tycoon once more, his tone laced with resolve.

Five. Million. Dollars. That's a sum exceeding most lifetimes' earnings, yet they're wagering it on artwork.

Yet the most fascinating aspect? The male bidders weren't merely affluent enthusiasts with refined preferences.

These weren't arbitrary tycoons vying for attractive visuals. They were calculated participants seeking to forge links, leave marks, purchase entry into the network they believed "Eros" symbolized.

They're offering for entry to influence masked as esteem for creativity.

A feminine voice sliced through, sharp and bold.

The pace of bidding eased a touch as the contestants dwindled. Folks were withdrawing, hitting their caps or deeming further pursuit strategically unwise for this buy.

At last, just four contenders stayed: three males whose fortunes allowed breezy talk of millions, plus Aurelia Royce in her ebony velvet and piercing blue gaze.

One male, his delivery beginning to reveal tension.

A second male, aiming for the mental blow of an even figure.

The other male, steadfast in resistance.

They're all attempting to endure longer, yet overlooking the corporate predator clad in high fashion.

With the identical relaxed poise she'd displayed all night, Aurelia Royce hoisted her paddle.

She tacked on seven hundred thousand more as if it were mere gratuity.

The trio of men shared looks. The mental math unfolded visibly—was pushing further justified? Had this shifted from art to a dominance struggle they stood no chance of winning?

Gradually, each dropped their paddle.

Through one offer, Aurelia Royce had mentally crushed three opponents. Admiration earned.

Celeste allowed the tension to linger, surveying the space with expert acuity.

"Six million seven hundred thousand dollars," she declared, her voice ringing with victory. "Going once..."

Quiet prevailed.

"Going twice..."

No one stirred a muscle.

The gavel crashed like a seal on a vault brimming with cash.

"Sold!" Celeste's call whipped across the gallery like smooth fabric laced with edge. "’Lust and Me’ to the woman in black velvet for

Six point seven damn million.

For a canvas that essentially admitted on display my ability to seduce the globe into yielding while still .

ARIA’s bound to perform risk analyses on this sum for half a year, matching it to every documented psyche of impulsive tycoon shoppers, and yet yield error:

The exhibition erupted.

Not courteous light applause.

Genuine, savage, nearly erotic cheers of endorsement. Cameras blinked like flashes from celebrity hunters in a storm.

Murmurs evolved into yells into bold cries of astonishment and jealousy. A person at the rear even whistled—deep, approving, as if witnessing a flawless spectacle of justice.

This was masked as refined society.

Celeste gestured her covered hand toward the platform, her grin broadening to reveal every sharp aspect of her smile.

Time to shine, you bastard.