Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 1104

Chapter 1104: Needy Girl with Daddy Issues?

Was it spite?

Was it anger?

Or was it the small, undignified, needy-girl ache of a woman who had paid an obscene sum of money for a piece of art and had walked off the gallery floor with three things: the art itself, the bill, and a very humiliating way Eros might’ve as well told her Be Gone Thot when he ran off avoiding her, it was so thorough it would still be footnoted at her funeral.

Aurelia took another long sip of champagne and decided not to decide.

The pleasure of an obsession of this calibre was the menu. You didn’t pick a feeling. You sampled.

She was on her fourth glass, and all the feelings were getting their turn at the table, and the want was the rowdiest of the bunch—sat in the corner, ordering more wine, refusing to leave.

The cabin hummed under her at thirty-eight thousand feet.

The boy was seventeens at best according to Senithe and came from nothing like literal being thrown in trash can and lockers... yet the audacity!

It really was a terrible week to be Aurelia.

She’d been telling herself, in private, for sometime now, that the art piece had been good.

This was important.

Aurelia was many things—vain, vindictive, allergic to most forms of restraint—but she was not in the habit of lying to herself about art. The piece had been very good. Devastatingly good that it should have been hanging in a museum somewhere, behind glass, with a small printed card explaining its significance to schoolchildren.

She would have infinitely preferred if it were mediocre.

Mediocre would have given her an exit. "I helped you buy a piece of trash piece when it was beneath my standards from the outset and bought it millions... the least you can do is be there at my convivence."

The masterpiece, unfortunately, was a masterpiece.

Which meant the boy who’d engineered the entire humiliation around it had also produced a piece of art she would, given the slightest excuse and zero witnesses, hang above her bed and stare at for the rest of her life.

Both things were true.

She’d had days to make her peace with that. She had not made her peace with it. She had, however, learned to drink through it.

But Aurelia was not, she informed her champagne glass with a small lethal sip, some defeated minor villain in a serial novel. Introduced in Chapter two. Buried in Chapter twelve. Mentioned by the wife at brunch in Chapter twenty-three.

’No.’

She lifted a finger.

A few days ago her assistant slipped forward—silent, sharp, anticipatory—laid the leather portfolio on the polished glass between them and retreated into the cabin’s discreet shadows.

Aurelia opened it.

Inside was the apology.

Three companies. Quietly distressed mid-cap acquisitions, three industries Aurelia had been circling for two weeks and never quite been able to swallow without raising regulators who wrote articles in their spare time.

The boards mysteriously pre-softened.

The activist shareholders inexplicably no longer activist. Clean envelopes, clean paperwork, like the deals had been waiting for her with their hats in their hands.

A small card pinned to the front, in calligraphy that would have given a museum curator a small heart attack.

With my regrets. —S.

Aurelia had laughed for thirty seconds the first time she’d read it. Genuinely laughed. The woman was funny, she’d give her that. Three companies Aurelia had failed to acquire and a Paris junket as an apology for a defective intel package.

In any other transaction, in any other century, the seller would have sent a refund.

...And a tasteful fruit basket.

Senithe had skipped the fruit basket and gone straight to fixing Aurelia’s portfolio.

Aurelia had read the card while she finished her wine.

Aurelia had ordered her assistant to pack for two weeks and to upgrade the suite to the floor with the larger terrace, because if she was going to be wooed back, she was going to be wooed.

**

NOW...

She turned the next page.

A photograph.

The boy crossing a street in his city, two women on his arm, a third trailing close. Caught candid by a lens at long range. Coat fitting him with the casual insolence of a coat that had given up trying to compete with the man inside it.

Aurelia’s pulse did something stupid.

She ignored it and turned the page. The next photograph showed him on a balcony with the icy CEO of Quantum Tech Aurelia had been losing to since she was twenty-six—leaning into him with the settled posture of a woman who had decided her position six months ago and saw no reason to renegotiate.

’Lovely.’

She turned the page faster.

The investigator, the artist she remembered very well, the redhead, his teacher at Lincoln High who looked, suspiciously, twenty-four, the nurse, the ballet dancer. The one with beautiful long legs. Three more she had not bothered to memorise yet because Aurelia did not memorise the names of an enemy’s harem until she had decided which one of them was the soft underbelly, and not a moment before.

She closed the portfolio.

Lifted her glass only to realise, with mild offence, that her glass was empty again.

Her assistant materialised. Refilled. Vanished. Excellent assistant.

She had been quite certain, going into this whole affair a few weeks ago, that her objective was the company.

When, exactly, had it stopped being only about the company?

When had the centre of her own private attention drifted, by some quiet treacherous inch a month, from a tech firm boardroom to a teenage boy’s smile in a candid photograph, and now she was on a private jet over the Atlantic?

When had Aurelia—started behaving, in the privacy of her own head, like a needy girl with Daddy Issues?

The snide voice in the back of her skull, helpfully, suggested the term daddy issues.

Aurelia killed the voice with a sip of champagne and went on with her thinking. She did not have issues. She had appetites and the appetite had grown, that was all.

It happened. It was, broadly, the appetite’s job. And what Aurelia did about her appetites—historically, with years track record nobody in three hemispheres had ever successfully challenged—was acquire them.

The trouble was the small cold question that kept tapping her on the shoulder no matter how many times she informed it she was busy.

What did Senithe actually want from her.

So. A goddess. Of course. Aurelia’s life was clearly entering its escalation arc.

Whatever Senithe was moving against—the boy, the women, the tower, the broader something Aurelia was being permitted to orbit like a well-funded extra in someone else’s film—was, by every sign she could read, also on Senithe’s tier.

What did Aurelia—mortal, however expensively assembled—have, that a being like Senithe needed badly enough to spend three companies and a city just to keep her unbothered?

Art-world reach? Gods made their own art.

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