Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 981: Thin Walls: Stepdaughter’s Confesion

Exactly forty-seven seconds after the bedroom door shut, the initial moan seeped out.

Genevieve and Maya perched at each end of the living room sofa—one a newcomer to Peter after under a day, the other long exposed to his chaotic presence.

Separating them stood three neutral cushions, a glass coffee table holding an ignored fruit bowl that Maya treated as her personal grocery stock, and the intensifying audio of Isabella's soul being meticulously reshaped.

A dull thump struck the wall. Followed by another.

Soon, a steady pattern emerged from that noise.

Consistent. Expert-level.

The rhythm implying a Kama Sutra study session where physics bent to will.

Genevieve fixed her gaze forward as if observing paint drying amid another's life meltdown.

Maya gazed ahead like this exact beige tone had appeared seventeen times already this month.

Neither gave it recognition.

"So," Genevieve remarked, crossing her legs and placing hands neatly in her lap like awaiting a DMV turn. "What a lovely penthouse."

"Thank you," Maya replied softly, adjusting glasses with poised grace to cling to remaining denial. "The kitchen's great too."

A raw, throaty moan pierced the walls—one potent enough for a complaint from Satan.

They acted as if it were far-off building work.

Extremely enthusiastic building work.

"How long have you stayed here?" Genevieve inquired, her tone a touch elevated.

Casual. Utterly casual.

Merely two ladies chatting in a living room free of any odd occurrences.

Except occurrences were unfolding. Loudly. Repeatedly. With zeal rivaling sports prowess.

"A while," Maya answered. She grabbed a grape from the bowl, consuming it with bomb-defuser precision, bite by measured bite. "Since Eros purchased it for Mom. She desired me nearer after... all that. I lacked closeness to Dad to choose him over her."

Delivered tonelessly. Emotionless. Like reciting a buried scar turned permanent mental tenant.

" this pussy—"

The phrase punched through the drywall, crisp and undeniable, complete with emphasis.

Genevieve's eyes flared slightly. Her lips parted, then sealed. She ironed a phantom crease from Peter's jacket—worn since last night, still scented with his unholy cologne—and cleared her throat.

"The sound carries remarkably here."

"Yeah," Maya agreed, taking another grape. "Walls prove thinner than expected in such luxury. One anticipates superior isolation when guilt funds the footage."

Now the headboard chimed in, adding percussive pulse that synced the moans to a detectable beat.

Without context and eyes shut, it could pass for fierce IKEA furniture stress-testing.

Maya continued her ritual—one grape matching each moan,, entire stem for wall-rattling impacts.

The bowl sat half depleted. Quite the large bowl.

A refill loomed necessary shortly.

Genevieve pivoted toward Maya. Deliberately slow. Like confronting a companion amid a live-action porno twist on home life, seeking assurance it's no fever delusion.

Her face conveyed what decorum barred her tongue:

Maya held her gaze. For the first instance since Genevieve's uninvited hallway embrace, Maya's facade eased. Fractured.

The veil of subdued unease morphed to rawer essence—relief. Profound, weary, skeletal relief.

The glance conveyed:

"It’s worse in the mornings," Maya shared.

"Worse?"

"He sometimes eats her out for breakfast when he sleeps over. Like... literally. Every morning. I have to put headphones on to make coffee."

Genevieve blinked. Blinked once more. "Headphones."

"The expensive kind." Maya popped another grape. "They don’t cancel enough. I think Bose is secretly judging me."

Both jolted. Reflexive. A mutual, total-body spasm forging sisterly ties beyond therapy's reach.

"Jesus Christ," Genevieve murmured.

"Yeah." Maya nodded deliberately, akin to a battle-hardened soldier nodding to a rookie hitting their initial mine. "Welcome to my life."

Silence expanded between them—barely silence.

Moans escalated from subdued to fierce.

The headboard ticked like a metronome powered by drywall foe and boundary despiser alike. An item toppled in the bedroom. Glass broke. No probe followed.

"That was the lamp," Maya noted without glance. "She’s replaced it three times."

"Three?"

"He keeps buying the same one. I think he finds it funny. Like a running gag only he and the drywall get."

Genevieve sank into the sofa, exhaling nasally. Prolonged. Restrained. The breath of one reshaping her reality grasp while lodging a cosmic disturbance report.

"Can I ask you something?" she ventured.

"Sure."

"How do you... deal with this? Like, on a daily basis. How do you just—" She waved loosely at the bedroom barrier, the noises, Eros's proximate storm of muscle and mayhem. "—function?"

Maya paused briefly. She placed the grape stem on the table. Clasped hands in lap.

Gazed downward.

Before responding, a heavier smash erupted from the bedroom—dresser perhaps. Or dignity.

The query settled deep within Maya—beyond humor, survival tricks, grapes, headphones, thrice-swapped lamps. To the core truth's domain.

The truth she'd only hinted at, in bits, jests masking pain, retracted dawn confessions.

She parted her lips.

Maya sighed.

Then lifted her eyes, unveiling the burden etched into her frame. The raw truth unspoken, for lack of comprehension.

Who grasps a stepfather as mobile sex deity heralding doom, nightly rewiring Mom's nerves via walls for months—

—yet the worst element, urging eternal couch exile, lay not in clamor, unease, or headphone hoard for morning survival?

Cazzie showed sharing paths.

Releasing words sans suffocation. This outsider—this stunning, unbowed beauty in Peter's jacket as armor—felt right.

No past. No loads. No preset judgments on Maya's emotions.

Entering this penthouse under a day prior, she embodied desire unapologetic.

"Can I be honest with you?" Maya whispered faintly.

"Please."

"You can’t judge me."

Genevieve chuckled wearily. "Sweetie, I had in a men’s bathroom, ran out on my husband in nothing but that stranger’s jacket and , and drove away in a Lamborghini that wasn’t mine. My got revoked somewhere around mile marker twelve. You’re safe."

Maya nearly grinned. Nearly...

The ensuing slap ripped through like library gunfire. Genevieve recoiled, nearly spilling phantom brew.

Maya stayed steady. Slaps marked routine. Mere ambiance.

"The thing is," Maya continued, selecting words warily, "I don’t just... deal with it. It’s not background noise I’ve learned to ignore. It’s—"

She halted. Gulped. Nudged glasses up nose—the tic from school days enduring.

"I hear them," she confessed. "Every time. Every sound. Every word. And I don’t—" Cheeks flushed rose, then crimson. Beyond shame. Fiercer. Ravenous. "I don’t hate it."