Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 971: The Gentleman’s Code

If chivalry is truly a thing of the past, then I am merely the gentleman who arrived at the wake in a jet-black Lamborghini, spent the night with the widow in the cloakroom, and proceeded to leave a rave review on Yelp regarding the catering services.

Society often enjoys the fantasy that morality falls apart in a grand, cinematic fashion—blades clashing, soaring orchestral themes, and someone reciting a flowery monologue about virtue just before plunging into a bottomless chasm.

In truth, such things perish far more discreetly, somewhere nestled between a calculated choice and a compelling anecdote, ideally while expensive liquor is being imbibed.

My existence has simply unfolded as an endless string of these specific intervals; if that dubs me the villain, then at least I am a well-dressed one, equipped with superior transportation and a circle of unexpectedly helpful accomplices.

After all, that is the amusing aspect of it.

My women have never once attempted to hinder my venture into morally gray territory.

Quite the opposite, they treat my moral descent much like a Formula One crew treats a driver hell-bent on testing corners at reckless speeds: with professional admiration, enthusiastic support, and just enough distance maintained to ensure plausible deniability when something inevitably bursts into flames.

This, quite precisely, explains how I found myself witnessing a man’s marriage fall to pieces in high-definition while cruising through the city streets.

Madison had reached out while we were still transitioning, and instead of the standard, uninspired video call, she simply swiveled her Quantum Watch at the display like a stage magician revealing a grand finale.

The restaurant’s interior was suddenly host to a holographic projection as broad as a high-end television, an image so crisp that the man currently dismantling his reputation could likely discern his own pores if he possessed the mental clarity to reflect on his actions.

Genevieve’s husband—soon to be her ex-husband, a man quickly relegated to a historical footnote—was locked in a public meltdown so melodramatic that even Hollywood studios would insist on toning down the performance.

With limbs flailing, his voice cracking, and veins throb-pulsing along his temples as if someone had buried heavy machinery beneath his flesh, he was currently berating a waiter who appeared too young to even legally consume the champagne he was hired to pour.

The poor lad wore the pained expression of a server who expected canapés and polite chatter, only to find himself cast as an extra in a divorce proceeding.

Madison, of course, had embraced the role of narrator with the flair of a nature documentary filmmaker.

“Observe the creature in his natural failing habitat,” she noted, holding a tone of fascinated curiosity usually reserved for rare, endangered species.

Charlotte burst into laughter somewhere over the line, Amanda interjected with a comment I failed to fully capture but which clearly carried enough venom to leave the entire company in hysterics, and I viewed the spectacle with the detached appreciation of a researcher watching a disaster.

The man gestured wildly toward the gallery exit we had vacated earlier, demanding that the terrified server account for his wife’s whereabouts and her departure with the artist.

The waiter blinked repeatedly, scanning the room for any sign of mature intervention, and briefly pondered the virtues of a career shift that didn't involve watching the affluent suffer emotional collapse within reach of the appetizers.

The standoff, naturally, was short-lived.

Helena’s security detail appeared with the cold efficiency of professionals who had spent their lives escorting wealthy idiots away from the consequences of their own making.

He was maneuvered toward the exit with the kind of forceful gentleness often applied to intoxicated relatives at a gala, though the distinction here was that this particular relative was discovering that berating the staff is not, in fact, a valid strategy for fixing his life.

Then, Helena herself graced the projection.

Tall and poised, her hair styled with such clinical precision it looked engineered, she stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

It wasn't an act of aggression, which is precisely why it commanded such power; Helena held the rare gift of projecting sheer authority without raising her volume, her hands, or even the arch of a brow.

The directive was broadcast silently and internalized instantly.

He transitioned from a furious spouse to a submissive civilian in roughly one and a half seconds.

Thirty seconds later, he was ushered into the night.

Inside the gallery, the rhythm of the party resumed—bubbly flowed, collectors debated pieces with the hushed reverence usually reserved for theology, and Celeste wore the serene expression of a woman whose evening entertainment had just received a premium upgrade for zero additional investment.

Meanwhile, Genevieve sat opposite me in the restaurant, observing the final moments as they played out over my shoulder, all while demolishing a breadstick with the sharp focus of someone who had recently burned through a caloric deficit.

She was starving, arguably a reasonable reaction given the physical exertion that proceeded dinner.

Her gaze shifted to the projection briefly, acknowledging the advanced tech with the quick wit of someone familiar with high society but rarely dazzled by it. For a heartbeat, her eyes went wide—the specific widening that signals the realization they’ve stepped into a realm of luxury far beyond their usual bracket—before the reaction melted away.

She turned her attention back to the menu.

Adaptable. Efficient. Possessing the right instincts.

“Quantum tech,” I murmured to the nearby patrons who stared with wide, bewildered eyes, mostly because subtle pretension is a waste if left unvoiced, as I pivoted back to watch Richard shuffle away from the gallery like a disgraced official fleeing the press.

Genevieve regarded the scene with passing interest.

She snapped a breadstick, chewed thoughtfully, and flipped the page of her menu.

That was the full extent of her response to the disintegration of her marriage: a snack and a page-turn.

I felt a budding affection for her. Not through the soft, melodic lens of poetic romance, but in the practical, appreciative way a connoisseur views a truly rare piece of craftsmanship.

Genevieve had watched her domestic life implode on a hologram like a midnight soap opera, and her primary concern was choosing between French fries or an extra serving.

A level of emotional pragmatism truly deserving of respect.

So, I inquired, with the casual air of someone checking the weather, where she intended to stay that evening.

She gave a shrug, eyes still glued to the menu, scrolling through the options with the indifferent grace of someone who had moved past the most taxing part of her night.

“A hotel, naturally,” she replied, as if answering whether water was cold. “Honestly? He’s been handing me the chance to leave for years.”

Another page flicked over.

“I just required the right threshold to cross,” she added.

She cast a glance up, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

“Life has a funny way of working out.”

I pressed a hand to my heart in mock indignation.

“So, I’ve been used,” I teased. “How shocking. I feel completely exploited, quite frankly.”

She lowered the menu slowly, fixed me with those glittering, dark eyes, and looked at me as if I’d just delivered a top-tier punchline.

Her gaze drifted downward, specifically to my inner thigh.

My charcoal jacket rested over her shoulders like a trophy, doing a valiant but largely symbolic job of maintaining her dignity. Her legs were shaky under the table, the lingering echoes of our earlier encounter still present, the kind that might have caused a Victorian lady to swoon.

“Darling,” she countered, voice honeyed, “guess whose evening involved a significantly higher degree of... exertion.”

I started to retort.

“It was mine,” she finished before I could speak. “The answer is indisputably mine. So, I think I take home the gold in the Exploitation Olympics.”

I mulled that over for a heartbeat.

“...A fair point.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, lifting the menu again with the quiet triumph of a woman who just settled a legal dispute. “Fair point.”

It was at that exact moment the waiter reappeared.

A youth, perhaps in his low twenties. Stressed in that particular way service staff become when their table looks like ground zero for a scandal they’ll later recount to colleagues with dramatic flair.

He’d been hovering for two minutes, attempting to decipher the visual puzzle sitting before him.

On one side of the table: me.

On the other: Genevieve.

Between us lied the Lamborghini key fob, resting under the ambient lights like a small, expensive punctuation mark.

His eyes darted between every element.

Genevieve.

The jacket.

Her legs.

The key.

Back to me.

Back to the key.

Back to Genevieve.

You could practically hear the grind of his mental gears as he struggled to reconcile his urge to ask questions with the cardinal rule of service: never inquire about things you aren't prepared to have answered.