Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 970: The Luckiest Bastard Alive

She seized my face—hands fully committed—while I was still navigating the Lamborghini at speeds that qualified as triple-digit felonies. She kissed me with the desperation of someone trying to swallow the last decade of her life and discard the remnants. It was intense, chaotic, and raw.

The taste was a blend of pure adrenaline, fresh asphalt, rebirth, and that specific, beautiful lunacy that only manifests when a woman peers into the depths of a canyon and decides the madman behind the steering wheel represents a superior long-term prospect compared to years of stifling polite existence.

"More," she breathed against my lips. "I want more."

It wasn't a suggestion.

It was a royal decree issued by a woman who had spent ten years waiting for permission to desire anything.

Her phone vibrated again in her lap. His name illuminated the display like a persistent process server. A stubborn little fool. He reminded me of a man who suddenly realized his emotional accounts were in the red and was attempting to deposit affection into a shuttered bank.

This time, she reached for it.

And she accepted the call.

I dimmed the music, though just enough to retain the bass that thrummed like background radiation, ensuring there was space for whatever was about to unfold.

The way she pressed that green button signified more than a phone call; it was a death warrant.

"Gen? Gen! Where on earth are you—" His voice erupted through the speakers, dripping with tinny panic and a hollow attempt at authority.

It was that particular pitch men adopt when pretending to be the master while trembling in their own skin. "I have been calling you—are you in a vehicle? Who is that idiot? Gen, you need to return immediately. We can discuss—"

"Daniel."

Her voice sliced through his rambling like a surgeon's blade through soft tissue. She sounded composed, level, and possessed the quiet lethality of landmines before they teach you the laws of physics. The bass remained, pulsing underneath like a second heartbeat.

"You need to listen extremely closely."

The line went deathly silent. His frantic shouting evaporated into the specific terror of a man encountering a tone from his wife that he never imagined existed.

"I am not your prize anymore," she declared. Each syllable was deliberate, as if she were reciting a final judgment she had drafted in her own blood years ago. "I am no longer your trophy. You can inform my parents as well; I have no intention of speaking to them in the near future."

I kept my eyes fixed on the pavement, because looking at her felt like staring directly into a blinding welding arc.

"I am not returning," she continued, her voice remaining steady. "Not tonight, not tomorrow. I have no interest in 'talking it out' or 'working on us.' Not for the house, not for the dignity of my family name, and certainly not for whatever duty my family claims I owe you for the privilege of being their third daughter."

She allowed the silence to linger, letting him fully absorb the weight and finality of her words.

"Goodbye."

She pulled the phone from her ear. She glanced at it momentarily—the glowing screen, the name pulsing like a fading heartbeat, the very device that had tracked, managed, and reminded her she was shackled to his ego 24/7 for a decade.

Then, she tossed it out the window.

The phone tumbled through the night air, caught a flicker of moonlight as if posing for a memorial photo, and vanished into the canyon’s dark abyss.

It was gone.

I stared at the empty space where a small fortune in Apple hardware had just reached terminal velocity.

She leaned back, crossed her legs as if we were lounging at brunch, and pulled my jacket tighter around her frame.

"You just threw that off Mulholland into a canyon."

"Technically a ravine. Canyons are deeper, although ravines provide superior acoustics for a dramatic exit."

"Is there truly a difference?"

"Roughly eight hundred feet of vertical drop and significantly more poetic justice. Indeed."

I broke into laughter, unable to stop.

"I believe you are the most insane woman I have encountered tonight," I remarked. "And that includes the ones who tried to sink their teeth into me."

"Good." She dialed the volume to the maximum. The bass shattered the silence again. She was back in the groove immediately, as if the call had been a minor, tedious interruption in the program. Swaying her head, her jacket shifting with the rhythm. Free. Utterly, irreversibly, magnificently free. "Keep driving."

We descended from Mulholland back into the city streets, and there it sat: a construction zone. Orange cones stood like traffic sentinels. A freshly paved boulevard with barriers on both sides—a narrow corridor of pristine asphalt that wasn't intended for tires for weeks.

Genevieve spotted it at the same moment I did.

"No," she stated.

"'No' what?"

"I recognize that gaze." She was grinning, a truly wicked look. "You are going to—"

I was already making the turn.

"EROS!"

The Lamborghini tore through the flimsy barrier like wet tissue. Cones scattered into the dark like plastic confetti at a high-end demolition party. The tires gripped the fresh asphalt, and the engine shrieked in delight. It was born for this exact transgression. I linked the drifts—left, right, left—in continuous, serpentine motion, disregarding the road to carve deep curves into the virgin pavement like a love letter written in Goodyear rubber. Black calligraphy covering two hundred feet of road.

Genevieve had both hands pressed against the ceiling, her body swaying with every shift. She screamed my name as if it were the only word left in her vocabulary. My jacket was long gone, discarded in the footwell. She was illuminated by moonlight and dashboard glow, wearing the expression of someone who had just discovered that delirium was a bottomless well.

I brought the car to a smooth halt at the zone's end. Smoke curled lazily past the windows. The engine ticked, satisfied. We sat in the silence, listening to her ragged breathing and my own pulse, while the city hummed in the distance, oblivious to our chaos.

Genevieve turned to me. Her hair was a beautiful wreck, her chest rising and falling. Her eyes were wet—not from tears, but from something else, a feeling she lacked the words to describe.

"I have never experienced anything like that," she whispered, her voice stripped of pretense. "Not once in my entire life."

"You will have it again," I promised her. "That is not mere optimism. That is a guarantee."

She held my gaze for a long moment, then reached down into the footwell to retrieve my jacket, sliding it onto her shoulders slowly, ritualistically, as if dressing in new armor or perhaps a new identity.

"I believe you," she replied softly.

I drifted away from the zone, tires protesting as I wove through traffic by mere inches. One driver honked like an angry goose, and another swerved into the lane, but the third didn't even notice us before our taillights became mere memories.

Genevieve showed no alarm. She threw her hands toward the sky—not out of fear, but release. Pure liberation.

My assumption had been accurate. The woman who spent a decade at the bottom of the ladder had finally promoted herself to the top.

Meanwhile, the man who had kept her suppressed was likely standing in some gallery doorway, phone in hand, fruitlessly redialing a number that was currently splintering against the canyon rocks.

He would keep calling. Men like him always do. They conflate persistence with devotion and panic with love, failing to realize the connection had severed long before the device hit the bottom.

I drove on. She laughed. The night continued to provide.

The music remained heavy, and she moved with it, her body finding every visceral beat. She looked as though every note had been composed specifically for this moment. Far behind us, on an unopened stretch of road, a sequence of S-curves scorched into the asphalt told a tale no investigator would ever comprehend. A love letter from a Lamborghini to a woman named Genevieve, directed by the luckiest, most depraved, and most vibrant bastard still drawing breath.