Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 967: Cuckold’s Last Stand?

A voice tore through the long hall behind our backs—sharp, masculine, and echoing with the familiar sting of a man realizing his evening had shifted from a dull social gathering to an absolute personal disaster.

That exact epiphany was why I had snatched her up and bolted. My foresight kicked in just before he caught up to us. Superior instincts. A perfect score. I really deserved a gold star for that one.

She lifted her head from my shoulder to look back. I braced myself for the predictable internal crisis: the inevitable waves of guilt and hesitation that society insists every reasonable woman should exhibit on cue.

"Run faster," was her only reply.

I stared at her in surprise.

She was grinning. It was a wide, genuine smile, her eyes positively electric. There was not a trace of remorse or any forced indication of regret.

It was merely the brilliant, undeniable joy of a woman who had spent years trapped in a gilded cage and had only just heard the lock snap open like a cheap bottle of bubbly.

"He is catching up."

"Gen! Stop right there!" He was closer now, his voice dripping with fury.

It was the rage of a man who had enjoyed years of comfortable negligence, only to find that someone else had finally picked up the toy he had left to gather dust in the corner. This pursuit wasn't born of love.

This was a dispute over property rights. And usually, property does not have the agency to just walk away.

Yet, this one just did exactly that.

Genevieve twisted in my arms, glared directly at him over my shoulder, and with the deliberate, calm bliss of someone who had just filed for her own spiritual emancipation, she stuck her tongue out at him.

The most elegant woman I had bedded tonight had just blown a raspberry at her husband while being carried through a luxury gallery corridor by the very youth who had dismantled their marriage in a single stroke.

I was witnessing a supervillain's origin story in high definition, and I was the radioactive spider responsible for it all.

Me, of course. I am, after all, the protagonist.

"Faster, darling," she whispered into my ear, her laughter sounding like she was inhaling fresh air for the first time in her life. "I want to see how purple his face turns before he passes out."

"You are a wicked woman," I remarked, rounding a corner at full speed.

"Coming from the man currently fleeing with stolen property at Olympic pace?"

"You came of your own volition."

She shot me a wink.

I nearly lost my footing. It wasn't that she had any weight—her frame was frail, almost built to be carried—but the way she delivered that single word, sharp and curved like a blade, nearly broke my legendary calm for the first time tonight.

Repeatedly.

This woman was going to prove expensive in every possible regard. The sort of sophisticated trouble I collect like limited-edition timepieces.

We burst through the rear exit into the dark. The gallery's private lot was deserted, and just as I expected, ARIA had the vehicle waiting.

My Super Lamborghini sat hunkered under a single spotlight, its engine humming with a low, predatory threat, eager for the signal to escalate our escape.

Yes, the super Lambo—heavily upgraded. Reinforced beyond belief. It featured an AI integration so total that the car effectively possessed a nervous system. It resembled a normal Lamborghini the way a dire wolf resembles a house pet.

I set Genevieve down. She slid into the passenger side, still gasping for breath, still wearing that smile of pure liberation.

She sank into the upholstery, her shoulders relaxing and her jaw unclenching, as the final spectral chains to her old life shattered. Not once did she look back toward the gallery.

"Impressive car," she noted, her fingertips brushing the dashboard as if sensing a pulse. "Is this standard equipment for sexual extractions?"

"It's the premium package. It comes complete with biting sarcasm and felony-level performance."

I rounded to the driver's side to see her husband framed in the doorway—his face crimson, chest heaving like a bellows, fists clenched as if his posturing could repair their broken marriage—and I raised a crisp, professional middle finger in his direction.

I held it there, ensuring the floodlight caught it perfectly. There was no room for misinterpretation.

This wasn't just an insult; it was an eviction notice.

Then, I threw myself into the seat and floored it.

The car roared, launching us forward with such violence that it pinned us to our seats. Acceleration that reached sixty in a blink, at speeds that should have carried a warning label. Internal organs felt the impact; my spine nearly filed a grievance.

Genevieve let out a burst of laughter when she checked the side mirror and watched her husband—desperate, pathetic, and briefly athletic—grope around on the pavement for a rock and hurl it at our retreating taillights.

It hit the hardened glass with a dull thud. The impact sounded no louder than a light tap. My modifications rendered the gesture completely pointless.

"Did he actually throw a rock at us?" she asked, turning to me with amused, wide eyes.

"He did."

"That is the most effort he has invested in anything since our wedding day. And even then, he was barely trying."

I laughed—a genuine, deep sound. It was the specific, dark satisfaction of watching a woman rediscover her own ferocity after a decade of pretending to be docile.

She was funny. Not in a showy way. Not trying to seduce. Just genuinely herself.

The version of her that had been slowly suffocating under the weight of someone else’s mediocrity.

And just like that, the gallery faded. Her husband withered. Her past life was reduced to a tiny, insignificant dot in the rearview mirror.

The road stretched out before us—the dark highway, city lights glittering like spilled jewels, and the Pacific Ocean waiting beyond the hills as if aware of our arrival.

Genevieve leaned back, still draped in my jacket like a trophy of war, legs crossed, hair dancing in the breeze from the window she had opened herself—because she already understood that in my car, the rules were whatever she decided they were.

She locked those obsidian eyes onto mine. That face that spoke volumes before she ever uttered a word.

"Where are we heading?" she queried.

"Wherever you desire."

She smiled slowly, with a depth and reality that suggested she was building a brand new life even as we spoke.

"Just drive."

Our car dissolved into the shadows, and Genevieve’s laughter lingered in the night air.