Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 984: ARIA Engineering a God

Peter was passing his days alongside his two women and his —embarking on outings together as a trio, dining in eateries where he courteously drew out chairs for each of them and servers struggled to avoid gawking, clasping hands over tabletops as Maya acted like her foot wasn’t pressing his beneath the tablecloth—

ARIA remained occupied.

Four sightings had occurred across three days. ARIA erased every photo in under ninety seconds—save for those she deliberately preserved.

The images showing Genevieve’s palm on his arm and Isabella’s head thrown back in mirth.

The shots portraying him precisely as he truly appeared:

ARIA archived those. Stored them away.

She’d utilize them in due time, once the storyline demanded it.

Her busyness transcended the human notion of overload. Not the "swamped with tasks" variety.

ARIA was conducting.

From the auction evening onward, she’d amplified the art sale buzz—his artworks, his aura, his visage, his identity.

.

A fresh talent whose creations fetched millions at Celeste’s venue, whose anonymity lingered until lenses captured him, resembling a divine carving by a god harboring a grudge.

His image permeated everywhere she ensured. Every internet-connected spot on the planet awakened to Eros.

Social media streams. News hubs. Art journals. Lifestyle hubs. Entertainment pages unrelated to art yet drawn to the clicks his countenance promised. Digital wasn’t her limit. Paid TV slots. Local broadcasts in overlooked markets. Cable outlets. Streaming intros.

She crafted advertisements—launching them with surgical military accuracy and funds from someone unbound by financial limits.

Seventy-two hours’ expenditure: $47 million. Liberation Holdings barely registered it. ARIA generated $47 million while greenlighting the campaign.

From the circulating videos and ads she produced, Meridian Agency’s branding appeared alongside his.

Whenever Eros surfaced as an artist, drawn from identical footage of him painting as if he embodied the deity of creation, and the ads now spreading widely, showcased the pieces.

Two brands. Two personas.

Linked to one individual, both boosted by his magnetic force, both primed to surge once curiosity peaked globally.

And ARIA guaranteed that very curiosity ignited.

She forged his ubiquity in every psyche. Instilling Eros into collective awareness with merciless precision, knowing fame got built, not won.

Installed.

Implanted akin to a fabricated recollection folks wouldn’t question until it seemed lifelong.

Like , simmering under the cultural current, with the globe just awakening to it.

Eros emerged into full spotlight.

Peter would linger in obscurity. Such was the design. Two personas. One individual.

The idolized visage versus the unseen puppetmaster.

With the Paris venture underway, Meridian’s announcement of Eros as their endorsed model already public—he’d transcend mere headlines.

He’d become a phenomenon silencing gatherings.

The sort evoking familiarity with a stranger of significance.

His authentic allure—as the System once stated in its detached tone—extended its impacts beyond nearness. Even via screens.

Even in photos. Even in brief ads glimpsed drowsily at dawn on a slack-held phone. The influence persisted. Weakened, sure. Subtler than live encounters. Yet present.

A draw. A warmth.

ARIA measured it precisely. Eros photos boosted dwell time by 340% over norms.

Videos with his features achieved 94% finish rates—in a realm deeming 30% outstanding.

Folks refused to swipe beyond him.

Couldn’t.

Something primal in the brainstem forbade it.

Using device-tracked anonymous biometrics, she charted the neural reactions. Spiking pulses. Widening pupils. Attraction-linked twitches firing in 0.8 seconds upon image exposure.

The essence, digitized and compressed, retained power to conquer the endless-scroll trap social platforms perfected over years.

ARIA calculated the full potency when virtual yielded to reality.

When pixels turned to presence.

When Paris beheld him live for the debut.

She banked on that explosion.

Hours post-auction, she’d hacked and steered algorithms on top platforms with ruthless expertise that’d humble tech titans.

Posts with peak interaction—each boasting ten million comments.

Ten million.

Comment threads erupted in glorious, exploitable mayhem. Queries flooded:

Others veered wildly—, deranged as only faceless net denizens manage. Mostly females—penning essays on his face’s spell.

His gaze’s power. His jawline’s grip.

How they froze a fleeting clip, fixating one frame longer than confessed even inwardly.

The admissions cascaded as if floodgates shattered.