Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 969: "Fly It."

I jerked the steering wheel to the right, sending us into another drift—sharper, more aggressive. The rear of the car swung out so far that the passenger side nearly brushed a parked Mercedes. It was close enough that I could vividly see the emblem and identify the wheel spokes, leaving me to mentally offer a quick apology to German automotive engineering for such reckless behavior.

She cried out and latched onto my arm, her grip tightening until her fingernails surely left marks in my skin.

"Two feet!" she breathed out, panicked. "That was barely two feet away!"

"Three feet," I corrected with composure. "My superior spatial perception provided an exact measurement."

I chose not to steer the conversation toward a therapy session.

Emotional vulnerability could wait until the adrenaline rush finished its theatrical performance. Women like Genevieve—those who had spent years being managed, polished, and displayed like delicate ornaments in a cabinet—did not require a deep dive into their feelings immediately.

What they truly required was a reminder that their own nervous system was still deeply active.

They needed to feel that hearts can race for reasons beyond quiet anxiety, and that lungs can catch their breath out of sheer exhilaration rather than impending doom.

At this moment, she was completely overwhelmed by sensory input. Every surge of G-force. Every screech of the tires. Every hair-breadth miss that set her pulse hammering against her ribs like a captive creature finally realizing it had the means to fight back.

Between each drift, she returned to her mood—nodding her head, loosening her shoulders, and singing lyrics into the wind with the unrestrained freedom of a person who just grasped that music sounds different when you aren't acting out a domestic performance for the benefit of a cold and distant observer.

The bass rattled the glass, and she turned the volume dial even higher. The windows vibrated as if desperate to shatter.

"It has been so long since I—" She halted mid-sentence, shaking her head. She let out a laugh at her own words. "God. I can't even remember how much time has passed. I used to love this feeling. Before—"

The silence hung between us like thick exhaust fumes.

I already possessed a mental blueprint of her life based on the breadcrumbs she had been dropping without realizing it. Her being a trophy wife was the most obvious clue. My working hypothesis—a mix of pattern recognition and cold spite—was that she was the second wife.

The upgrade he chose after the first one finally consulted with attorneys and departed. The only problem was, he never truly severed ties with wife number one.

He kept her within his orbit. Late-night text messages that evolved into hours of conversation. Business dinners that dragged on until two in the morning.

It was a form of emotional infidelity disguised as obligation. That specific brand of slow-motion betrayal that isn't technically cheating, provided you define cheating as something that excludes the involvement of the heart.

Naturally, the first wife eventually walked away.

Then came Genevieve. A refined heritage. Trophy 2.0. Sophisticated. Elegant. The perfect accessory for a man who determined his primary value through his assets.

Her phone began to vibrate.

It was tucked somewhere within my jacket—in the interior pocket she had claimed as her own temporary purse. The sharp, pulsating buzz cut through the bass like a legal summons through music at a party. She pulled it out and glanced at the display.

The husband's name blazed on the screen like a regrettable life choice in capital letters.

She watched it, stunned. The device buzzed again. His name pulsed with every vibration, resembling a tantrum rendered in pixelated light.

Then, she let out a laugh.

It was a quieter, darker sound. The kind of laughter that strikes outsiders as amusement but sounds like a decade of repressed suffering to anyone truly listening.

"Observe him," she remarked, holding the screen toward me. Four missed calls. Seven texts. The latest read: WHERE ARE YOU. Every letter was capitalized. No punctuation. Even his frantic demands arrived with an air of dominance.

"He has not called me four times in a row for years," she noted. "And even then, it was only because I was running late to a function and he was fearful that my relatives or colleagues would judge him."

Another laugh escaped her. It held the same bitter, authentic flavor—a morbid comedy if you disregarded the ten years of internal damage underneath.

"Men," she continued, her eyes fixed on the throbbing screen. "Do you know what is truly comical? He never calls when he arrives home at 3 a.m. He never reaches out when he forgets my birthday. He never calls when I sit alone in the kitchen at two in the morning, waiting for him to return from whatever encounter leave him smelling like someone else's secrets."

She pivoted the phone between her fingers, moving slowly, measuring its weight like physical evidence. "But now? Now that his little prize finally walks out the door with another man? Suddenly, he remembers he is married."

Prize. She used the word as if it were a choker chain. As if it were a tax deduction.

"Men are obsessed with owning trophies they never actually put in the work to appreciate," she said. A smile lingered on her lips, but her gaze had turned hollow. "He did not want me. He wanted to possess me. There is a vast difference in that. It took me years of lonely nights to finally understand that for myself."

The phone buzzed again. His name returned.

"He is rather persistent tonight," I observed.

"There is always a first time for everything."

I would surely receive the uncut, director's version eventually. But the outline was already vivid: a lingering ex-wife ghost with full access to the home. Mistresses on a rotating schedule—because men like him don't merely commit emotional betrayal; they turn it into a business model.

Genevieve was perpetually in last place for everything: the last one considered, the last one nurtured, the last one chosen. And if her family had brokered the marriage for the sake of optics and alliances—old-money social maneuvering posing as tradition?

They likely never worried about whether she was happy. They only cared that she looked the part during events like today's auction.

We turned onto Mulholland. The road stretched out as if anticipating our arrival. The curves were carved into the mountain side with the city beneath us shimmering like discarded circuit boards and broken promises. This was Lambo territory—where raw horsepower collides with landscape, and physics gets embarrassed.

"That one," Genevieve suddenly said, gesturing through the windshield toward an approaching hairpin turn. There was a guardrail and a steep canyon drop. The type of curve that compels sensible people to hit the brakes and pray.

"That one what?"

"Drift it."

I looked over at her. She was leaning forward, the seatbelt biting into her shoulder, her jacket draping off her like an afterthought. Her gaze was locked on the curve with the intensity of someone who had just tasted true autonomy and decided she wanted seconds, thirds, and the rest of the bottle.

"There is a massive drop on the other side of that guardrail," I reminded her.

"I am aware."

"And you want me to—"

"I want you to make me feel like I am flying." She turned to face me. There was no smile and no flirting. Merely dark intensity burning with something that had been locked away for a decade and was finally smashing the door down. "Are you capable of that?"

Indeed.

I was capable of that.

I was capable of much more.

I downshifted into third. The engine dropped into a guttural, mechanical roar—deep and furious. The RPMs climbed. The curve drew near. I waited. I waited until the absolute last instant—the precise moment where any sane individual would have slammed the brakes, where science began issuing warnings, and gravity began drafting lawsuits—

Then, I steered in.

The back end broke free. The Lambo swung sideways into the hairpin with the tires howling, rotating the chassis at an angle that left us parallel to the guardrail.

Genevieve’s side of the vehicle swept within inches of the barrier—close enough that she could have reached out to touch the steel, close enough to peer into the infinite black void of the canyon, with the city lights shining like a distant galaxy below.

She did not scream this time.

She fell completely silent. Her mouth open, her eyes wide, her frame locked in place—suspended in that fleeting space between pure terror and transcendence where the mind struggles to decide whether to panic or surrender.

Then the tires reclaimed their grip. The car straightened out. The road leveled. The night rushed back in—the engine’s steady thrum, the glow of the city, and the scent of burnt rubber mingling with the faint trace of salt carried on the breeze from far away.

Genevieve exhaled. It was a long, shuddering sound. The breath released a decade of tension.

"Oh my God," she whispered. Then, louder: "Yes."

Her hands were trembling and she studied them. She looked at me, then at the road behind us where the tire marks curved into the asphalt like a violent scar.

"I was flying," she stated. It wasn't a question. It was a revelation.

"I told you so."