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

Chapter 349: Breakfast, Bows, and Borrowed Moms

Breakfast at the Carter household had mutated into a goddamn UN peace conference crossed with a telenovela feeding frenzy—with me trapped at the center as the sacrificial lamb.

Tommy showed up around 10 AM dragging his mom like battle armor, and when Ms. Chen got the full download—the API deal, the billionaire-bestie package, the whole "make my son rich" fairy tale—she hit me with a full-frontal assault of traditional Asian mom gratitude.

Which meant bowing. Deep, soul-crushing, spine-liquifying bows that made me want to melt into the floorboards and die painfully. Three times. Forehead nearly kissing my fucking knees every time.

"Peter," she wheezed rising, hands clasped so tight her knuckles glowed bone-white like she was praying to me instead of some seventeen-year-old punk with supernatural dick energy and morally bankrupt life choices. "What you’ve done for Tommy... I can never..." Her voice cracked, thick with tears and reverence. "This. I can never repay."

"Ms. Chen, please," I begged, feeling my face combust like that time I accidentally broadcast *** Kardashians nudes on the church widescreen during Easter Mass. "Stop. You’re literally my second mom. This is ritualistic humiliation."

And Christ, speak of mind-fucking torture—the woman was a goddess carved from midnight and expensive silk. Sorry, but facts were facts: Lily Chen was the goddamn MILF MVP of Lincoln Heights, and today she’d declared open season on my sanity.

She sat across from me, afternoon light slamming into her skin like it had been summoned by her presence. The silk dress—deep burgundy that probably cost more than your annual grocery budget—clung like a second skin, declaring war on decency.

It hugged her curves with a softness that felt like violence—silk whispering threats against skin, mapping every swell and dip with betraying precision.

Her breasts pressed into the fabric like ripe watermelon fruit straining against silk, full and natural, the burgundy depth making them look bruised, edible, the thin weave revealing the faint halo of areolas beneath, at least to me— a delicate shadow that made the air around them feel thicker, charged.

Neckline screaming invitation not statement—a plunging V that wasn’t daring, but devastating, cutting a clean line to the swell of cleavage, exposing the soft valley where collarbone met sternum, a dark shadowed hollow that promised secrets.

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