Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 966: The Getaway

Is it possible for a face to name itself in hindsight?

Genevieve.

She whispered it while we remained tangled in the messy aftermath of our intimacy—her heat lingering against my collarbone, her heartbeat slowing from the frantic rhythm of a war drum to a more composed pace. Just like that, she gave it up.

It felt as though she had been holding onto the receipt for her most prized acquisition.

The moment those sounds resonated in the air, I truly observed her. This wasn't the gaze clouded by desire I had maintained since the bathroom door latched shut.

I saw the real woman. And indeed.

Genevieve. Naturally; that visage didn't suit someone ordinary. It belonged to a woman capable of toppling dynasties with little more than sharp eyeliner and a cold, quiet disdain.

Her locks were raven-black, resembling midnight poured over silk. Her eyes were dark pools of obsidian that seemed to have already scanned my secrets and found them lacking.

Slender. Chiselled.

She possessed the figure that causes financial planners to suddenly recall urgent meetings and leads marriage counsellors to update their professional profiles.

All that urgent, liquor-fuelled passion earlier? I had been far too preoccupied tearing her world apart to appreciate the finer visual details.

Now—as I smuggled her through the private staff corridor that only Celeste and I were privy to—I catalogued every feature like a detective documenting evidence with a surge of adrenaline.

Her collarbones caught the light as if crafted specifically for cinematic framing. A fading flush from our encounter still painted her skin—my own mark, left in biological intensity. Her limbs still trembled from the intensity of my touch, yet she strode beside me as if deciding that if her marriage were to burn, she would ensure she looked stunning doing it.

She let out a low, breathless laugh, pressing a hand to her mouth to contain a thrill that felt almost illicit.

Her other hand gripped my arm tightly. She was swamped by my oversized charcoal jacket—the sleeves far too long and the hem grazing her knees, leaving it open just enough to reveal her legs and the dangerous swell of her curves concealed by nothing but the remains of her composure.

Everything she had been wearing to the gala? It was now little more than abandoned debris.

Dress:

Bra:

One heel:

The other heel:

Don't bother asking about her lace panties... I honestly couldn't tell you.

My jacket acted as a masterclass in scandalous PR. The charcoal wool against her flushed skin, shifting with every step—exposing and hiding glimpses of thigh like a glitch designed to shatter composure.

She resembled the mysterious, blurred figure from a late-night tabloid report. The very embodiment of scandal.

We narrowly bypassed a server carrying crystal flutes that likely cost more than the average monthly rent. She pressed closer to me, muffling her amusement against my shoulder.

I could feel her warm breath through the fabric. Her nails dug into my arm—not out of panic, but from a sheer, intoxicating rush.

"So," she breathed, tilting her dark gaze upward, "how many times have you executed this exact routine? Smuggling married women out of restrooms as if you were running some kind of clandestine operation?"

I chuckled. "You make it sound like a disaster drill."

"Isn't it?" She grinned, her expression defiant and wicked. "Something definitely caught fire back there. Time and again. You seem suspiciously practiced at the exit strategy. Rehearsed much?"

The truth? I had been so active lately that it would have been stranger if I hadn't mapped out an escape route.

But this specific variety—claiming a vibrant, married woman through secret hallways while her husband socialised mere paces away, still believing his wife was occupied—this was a debut.

My first attempt at this specific brand of escapade.

Still, there was no need to rank my achievements as if they were collectibles.

I parried playfully. "Let me turn that around. Are you upset that you aren't the first?"

Spoiler: she was exceptional. The first of her kind, in any case. I wouldn't reveal that, however. Mystique is like holding back—sometimes you have to delay the climax.

She didn't reply with words.

Instead, she pinned me against the wall, flattening herself against the plaster, pulling me close until our bodies met. My jacket shifted. Her feverish skin radiated through my shirt, still carrying the echoes of our recent exertion.

Then she kissed me. Slow. Intentional.

As if the corridor, the gala, her husband, and the very concept of consequences had all decided to take a leave of absence.

When we drew apart, her playfulness had vanished. Something deeper and sharper remained in her eyes.

"I have spent my entire adult existence being the final option," she murmured, her voice cold as a blade. "Last on his list. Last to hear about those mysterious 'business trips' accompanied by hotel bills and alien scents. Last to realise our anniversary was merely an expensive guilt trip wrapped in candlelight."

One strap slipped from her shoulder—a purposeful gesture. "So, no. I am not disappointed that I am not your first. I am simply relieved I finally prioritised myself rather than waiting for him to register my existence."

Her words struck with the force of a wrecking ball.

Years of chasing shadows. Of believing her husband remained a man worth waiting for. Of clinging to hope because it felt safer than reality—until this night. Until a stranger revealed what it meant to actually be desired.

I refused to let the heavy silence persist.

I scooped her up—a princess carry—and took off.

She gasped, "What the heck—"

"No tragic confessions in the hallways," I commanded, moving quickly. "That is the rule."

"You don't own this building!"

"I own this crime in progress. That is near enough."

Her head tilted back, her hair whipping like black silk. She let out a laugh—full, joyful, and slightly unhinged. She tapped my chest. "Set me down, you absolute madman!"

"Impossible. You are evidence A. I am currently relocating the crime scene."

"Oh, heavens." She trembled with laughter, locking her arms around my neck, burying her face into my chest as if we were reckless teenagers again, instead of a woman fleeing the ruins of her marriage. "You are a complete and total lunatic."

Her heart hammered against my chest like a trapped creature finally tasting freedom. Fast. Electric. The pulse of a woman who had just awakened to the fact that she was more than mere decoration.

My jacket had ridden up, pressing her bare skin against my arm. She carried the scent of my cologne and the lingering fragrance of our shared passion—a potent mix that science has yet to categorise.

"Gen!"