Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Chapter 342: The Rivera Gambit

I sat in Mom’s Mercedes, suffocating through early morning LA traffic like a zombie in a suit-and-tie funeral procession, toward what could be either a fucking masterstroke or a dumpster fire visible from orbit.

By the time she woke, Mom would be furious I’d bailed without breakfast—probably lecture me about "neurotransmitters" and "antioxidant smoothies" while completely oblivious that her son was about to turn a media empire into his Quantum Tech propaganda machine.

The Exorcist over my skipped breakfast, she’ll go: "Peter! Your mitochondria need protein! Your prefrontal cortex needs oats!" Oblivious. Sweet. Eat your kale, Peter. We’ve got dynasties to dismantle.

I’d left Charlotte and Madison drowning in my sheets like Valkyries after Ragnarok.

Charlotte? Curled in that spot—that hallowed sliver of mattress she’d claimed like a conquistador planting a flag on conquered Venus. Vulnerable as a kitten, lethal as a black widow. Fucking mine. Madison? Sprawled across 60% of the giant bed like she’d bought it, the sheets, and my soul in a hostile takeover, radiating owned energy like Chernobyl’s glow-in-the-dark cousin.

Charlotte’d probably stay at Mom’s house for days—Linda Carter wouldn’t let an exhausted billionaire CEO escape her maternal smothering, and Charlotte needed that coddling more than she’d ever admit. Hilarious. Pathetically necessary.

The Sofia and Jack situation? Locked. Loaded. Ready to detonate. But bigger fish fried first: Antonio "Puppet Emperor" Rivera.

Honestly, post-Miami, my body screamed for three things: rest, skin, family, and liberations. Oh, that is four.

Miami’s newly freed queens needed help relocating their lives, portfolios, and existential purpose into my orbit as they’d requested. Lincoln Heights? Chump change. All of LA was the fucking jackpot. My future harem would cling to Big Daddy Eros like barnacles on a battleship. Gotta build them a capitalist Eden—where ventures bloom and enemies vanish quietly, like cancelled influencers.

I shook my head, focusing on the road—LA’s concrete labyrinth bleeding exhaust fumes.

Today’s Thursday: D-Day Triple Threat. API Auction. Making Tommy Chen a millionaire (and me his "humble wizard behind the curtain"). Golden-heart Tommy, refusing to ditch his "boring" bestie. Gag. Adorable. Like golden retriever loyalty, but with stock options.

Moving Day. Fortress of Solitude 2.0 awaits. Finally ditching Mom’s suburban purgatory.

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