Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Operation: Don’t Die a Virgin 1

The rest of the school day passed in a blur of academic white noise and existential panic that would have made Charlie Sheen’s meltdown look stable. I sat through AP Literature pretending to give a shit about symbolism in The Great Gatsby while my brain ran through every possible scenario of what might happen at Madison’s house. Most of these scenarios ended with me embarrassing myself in ways that would have required therapy and possibly witness protection.

By the time I got home, my nervous system was operating at the frequency of a TikTok teen discovering their video got ratio’d into oblivion.

"Hey, sweetheart," Mom called from the kitchen as I walked through the door, giving me that concerned nurse look like she was about to check my pulse. "How was school?"

"Educational," I managed, which was technically true if you counted learning that hot girls might actually want to touch me as a groundbreaking scientific discovery.

"Good! Dinner’s at six if you want some—"

"Actually, I was going to study at a friend’s house tonight," I interrupted, the lie sliding out smoother than a Kardashian’s PR team handling another scandal. "Working on a project."

Mom gave me one of those suspicious‑parent looks that suggested she had seen enough teenage bullshit to detect lies from space. "Which friend?"

"Madison Torres. She’s in my chemistry class." Also technically true, if you counted whatever chemical reactions might happen between us as legitimate science.

"That’s nice, honey. Just be home by ten."

If only she knew her virgin son was about to attempt seducing the hottest girl in school. She’d probably have a stroke. Or start a GoFundMe for my therapy bills.

I escaped to my room and immediately locked the door, because what I was about to do required privacy and the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs or watching James Corden try to be funny.

Operation: Don’t Die a Virgin was officially in effect.

But first, reality‑check time. I pulled up my banking app because maybe, just maybe, I could buy an actual decent outfit for this historic occasion that didn’t scream "clearance‑rack refugee."

Current balance: $47.23.

I needed to find a razor, which meant venturing into forbidden territory: the medicine‑cabinet archaeology expedition. Mom had one of those fancy women’s razors, but using that would have been like admitting I’d hit rock bottom harder than Britney in 2007.

I remembered seeing a razor in the hall bathroom medicine cabinet—probably bought by mom for whoever my mom was secretly dating back then while we were at school before she gave up on men entirely and decided her children were less disappointing.

I crept down the hallway like I was conducting a covert operation worthy of Mission Impossible, which I basically was. The medicine cabinet creaked open, and there it was: a classic men’s razor that looked like it would survive the Clinton administration and possibly witness some historical events id given enough time.

"This is nasty," I muttered, but desperate times called for desperate measures. At least it was better than borrowing my mom’s pink monstrosity that probably cost more than my bike.

YouTube tutorial number two: "How to shave like a man and not like a confused toddler with sharp objects."

The video was hosted by some bearded guy who probably started shaving in the womb and treated facial hair like it was a religious experience. He had that lumberjack aesthetic that screamed "I chop wood for fun and intimidate bears with my masculinity."

"Start with short strokes," Beard Guy instructed with the authority of someone who’s never accidentally turned his face into a crime scene. "Always go with the grain first."