Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 968: The Luckiest Bastard Alive

I was truly the most fortunate bastard in existence.

If compelled to ink that declaration onto my brow to ensure I never forgot it, I would do so without hesitation. Consider it a task completed.

I never stalked these women like some pathetic, desperate pickup artist armed with a spreadsheet and a neckbeard.

Absolutely not.

The universe simply presented them to me as gifts precisely when their marriages had curdled into bland resentment and mutual imprisonment.

Five years, twelve years, twenty-three years—it made no difference. The narrative path was always identical.

Was it cosmic destiny? Or perhaps just the statistical reality that every long-term union eventually devolves into a shared contract for emotional furniture that no one desires anymore?

It was both. Unquestionably both.

Every single one of them suffered from a unique flavor of husband-failure:

The man who was never home.

The man who was always home but never present.

The man who mouthed empty platitudes for nine years straight.

The man who was a void of personality.

Different names. Different financial brackets. The exact same epitaph for their intimacy.

And the singular constant through it all? Me.

I never needed to exert much effort. A single glance. One solitary sentence. One brief moment of truly perceiving them instead of staring through them as if they were mere background props in their own lives.

That was sufficient. My presence acted like smelling salts delivered to someone in a coma. Years of suppressed yearnings, ignored intimacy, and hollow promises simply... dissipated.

If some sanctimonious Reddit forum ever labeled me a Demon Incubus Prince capable of manifesting a woman’s deepest hungers until she forgot the meaning of the word 'restraint,' I wouldn't even demand a paternity test to confirm the identity of my Demon father and Demon mother.

I would simply nod, take a sip of my drink, and reply:

Observe the absolute evidence.

At this very moment: a modified Lamborghini, midnight in Los Angeles, the wife of another man riding passenger, adorned only in my charcoal blazer and a post-orgasmic glow bright enough to illuminate the city streets. Her hair streamed wildly behind her as if she had finally escaped the maximum-security prison of monogamy.

Shrieking—

—into the gale, because for the first time in an eternity, she recalled what it truly meant to be alive.

I banked the Lambo sharply through the curve. The rear end fishtailed in a clean, deliberate arc. Tires screeched in agony. Genevieve slapped her hand against the dashboard, yet her mouth remained parted in a wild howl that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the reawakening of her pulse.

I brought the vehicle back into a straight line. The motor settled into a predatory rumble. She turned those obsidian eyes toward me—pupils dilated, chest heaving as though she had just finished sprinting through a decade of repression—and whispered a single word:

"Again."

And so, I obliged.

Before I did, she leaned forward, unhesitating and bold, and began tapping the dashboard display as if she had authored the UI herself. She bypassed ARIA’s curated evening playlists—classical, jazz, and lo-fi beats for sad boys with excess capital—until she located her selection.

Hip-hop.

Raw. Heavy. Bass deep enough to rattle your internal organs like assembly instructions for an IKEA set. She surged the volume until the side mirrors vibrated and the seats hummed against our bodies, as though they were co-conspirators in our thrill.

Then, she began to sway.

It wasn't a full dance—limited by the constraints of seatbelts, a jacket, and the physics of a cockpit—but she moved as if she had been birthed inside a subwoofer and cruelly cast out years ago. Her head rolled, shoulders dipped.

Her body aligned with the rhythm like water finding its way through a rupture in a dam. Eyes closed. Lips tracing lyrics she shouldn't have remembered.

One hand braced against the ceiling, the other reaching out to surf the nocturnal air.

She carried herself like a woman who hadn't been permitted such freedom since her university days. Perhaps longer.

I observed her for three seconds—three seconds of Genevieve bathed in the dashboard's glow, draped in moonlight and my jacket like conquered territory, swaying her hips to a tempo that would have triggered an arrhythmia in her husband—and I thought:

Women are not simple. I understand this. I have witnessed the proof. I watched from the periphery before I became the cheat code.

Ancient history.

Genevieve kept stories buried behind her teeth like loaded munitions. I could sense them whenever her laughter stalled for a fraction of a second too long.

But she wasn't ready to release them. Not tonight.

Tonight, she remained the stranger I had taken in a bathroom stall, now racing through Los Angeles while she discharged the stress, the anxiety, and the cumulative damage of ten years directly into the void.

We approached a wide, deserted intersection—four lanes, traffic signals cycling for phantom traffic. I shifted down, heard the engine snarl as if offended by the concept of linear movement, and yanked the wheel hard to the left.

A full three-sixty.

The Lambo pirouetted on its center, showcasing its power for the heavens. Tires painted perfect black circles upon the asphalt. Smoke billowed in pale, golden plumes under the flickering lamps. Centrifugal force pressed Genevieve deep into the leather.

Both hands slammed against the dashboard.

Fingers splayed. Strands of hair whipped across her features, into her mouth, and over her eyes. She made no effort to push them aside. She did not care.

She was laughing through her cries—two distinct sounds weaving into something primal and nascent.

As the vehicle snapped into alignment, she was gasping. Flushed. Her jacket hung off one shoulder, exposing her collarbone, the curve of her breast, and skin still marked from our earlier encounter. She left it disheveled.

That was when I noticed her hand.

Her left hand. Still braced against the dash as if rebelling against gravity. Her fingers were spread wide from the recent drift. And on the ring finger—nothing.

Just a faint, accusatory strip of skin where a wedding band had sat for years like an unwanted squatter. The pale line was so distinct it appeared manufactured. A ghost of gold.

She had removed it.

Somewhere between the tiled walls of the restroom and the shadows of the corridor. Somewhere between me rearranging her life and my jacket becoming her new attire. I hadn't even witnessed the moment.

I hadn't heard the subtle chime of platinum hitting ceramic.

Yet she had performed the act in total stillness—like discarding a regrettable scar she had never agreed to bear. At this very moment, that ring was likely abandoned on a sink's edge, nestled beside shredded silk, a solitary heel, and the final piece of evidence that she had ever belonged to another.

Or perhaps she had flushed it down the drain. I wouldn't put it past her. Genevieve was rapidly evolving from 'disappointment' to something much more dangerous.

"You—" she started, voice breathless, pointing at me as if I had personally authored the laws of physics. "You are certifiably—"