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

Chapter 345: The Rivera Gambit

The GPS, synced with ARIA’s digital bloodhound instincts, routed me to Holmby Hills—LA’s Platinum Fucking Triangle, where bank accounts have commas and soul-crushing envy is the local currency. Mansions glared at Mom’s Mercedes like it was a Walmart shopping cart parked at a Lamborghini convention.

Every eyesore was bigger, shinier, and more fuck-you expensive than the last.

Made me rethink—not whether I should’ve bought Mom’s mansion here—but whether I should just buy the entire goddamn neighborhood. Then I remembered: Oh, right. I own more cash than most of these trust fund Vikings combined.

I dismissed the thought. Mostly.

Soon, the gates groaned open—Rivera Family Manor. Like the rest of Holmby Hills’ overcompensation parade, it had a gate that screamed "I cost more than your kid’s college fund." But inside? Holy shit. Mom’s GLE looked like a Matchbox car abandoned in a mechanic’s wet dream.

The compound was a goddamn military exhibit—vintage Ferraris lined up like soldiers, a matte-black Bugatti Chiron purring under a carport, a fucking helicopter fucking mounted near the helipad. Because nothing says "old money" quite like helicopter machinery as lawn art.

The manor itself? A French Renaissance power fantasy. Château-style, light stone facade, steep slate roof jutting into the smoggy sky like the teeth of a bored god. Dormer windows glared down like judgmental aristocrats. Tall, ornate chimneys? Probably where they burn incriminating documents.

Double staircase swept up to doors big enough to park a tank in front of, framed by columns straight out of a Greek god’s dick-measuring contest.

Landscaping? So perfect it felt hostile. Hedges trimmed into geometric shapes. A long rectangular fountain shot water into the air, clean and sterile, reflecting a sky that hadn’t seen natural blue since Reagan was president.

Place screamed old money—the kind where black-tie galas end in dead hookers, vintage cars are just background decor, and the wine cellar doubles as a panic room.

I killed the engine. Instantly shifted into Eros mode—effortless dominance poured into formal wear. Shirt? Deep emerald green, sleeves rolled like I was about to disarm a bomb or ruin a marriage. Trousers? Cream, sharp enough to slice steel. Belt? Rich brown leather, holding everything together with quiet authority. Shoes? Polished brogues.

Even the watch—a vintage Patek Philippe—didn’t scream wealth. It just confirmed it. Like my style was a second skin, and that skin was made of money.

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