Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 694

Chapter 694: Returning Home

Trent Holloway was already in prison. Had been for weeks, ever since I dismantled his life for what he did to Emma—while I was blissfully unaware my sister was drowning ten feet from shore.

But prison?

Prison was just the trailer.

I was here for the full feature.

I hold grudges the way responsible adults hold investment portfolios—long-term, diversified, and designed to compound aggressively over time.

And prisons, like the outside world, obeyed one sacred principle: money talks louder than morality. Pay the right people, and suddenly the system becomes... flexible.

For example: pay the warden enough, and Trent’s life could be transformed into a legally ambiguous nightmare.

Privileges misplaced. Meals forgotten. Transfers mishandled. Cell assignments re-evaluated with an eye toward inmates who viewed sex offenders as stress balls. Guards who developed acute, selective blindness in corners without cameras.

The American justice system: theoretically broken for everyone, but spectacularly broken if you antagonize someone with cash and a vindictive streak.

One hundred thousand dollars was all it took to convince Warden Blackwell to ensure Trent’s incarceration was as educational as possible. Maybe a little beyond policy. Possibly past humane. Comfortably wedged between justice and cruelty, where accountability likes to nap.

Yes, I spent that much money.

No, I don’t regret it.

Trent needed to understand something fundamental: prison wasn’t the punishment. It was the venue. The punishment was waking up every day knowing there was no relief coming—no allies, no mercy, no reset button.

Was it healthy? Absolutely not.

Was it satisfying? Immensely.

Did it make me a bad person? Probably.

Did I care? Not even remotely.

Who would? His own family barely tried.

His mother showed up once—cried on cue, fed the cameras a tasteful serving of grief, then vanished like she’d fulfilled a contractual obligation.

His father hired a mid-tier lawyer, advised a guilty plea, and treated his son like a bad stock position—cut losses, move on, don’t look back.

No visits. No letters. No care packages. No we still love you platitudes.

Even his family knew he was trash. They just preferred not to be the ones taking it out.

He was alone.

And I intended to make sure he felt every second of it.

"Funds transferred," ARIA said, her tone carrying a hint of satisfaction that really should’ve prompted introspection. "Warden Blackwell will receive instructions shortly. Trent Holloway’s prison experience is about to deteriorate significantly."

Good.

One down.

Then there was Jack Morrison.

Time to shut him down.

Jack didn’t come with the convenient courtesy of prosecutable bruises. His damage was quieter. Psychological. Emotional. The kind of abuse that never leaves fingerprints but permanently rearranges someone’s internal wiring.

No punches. No broken bones. Just manipulation. Gaslighting. Public humiliation dressed up as "jokes." The slow erosion of reality until the victim stops trusting her own memory, her own worth, her own right to exist without apology.

Courts hate that kind of abuse. Too intangible. Too messy. Too inconvenient.

Victims, unfortunately, never forget it. It sets in the bones. Outlives scars.

Because Jack hadn’t invented himself. He’d inherited the blueprint.

He’d learned from his father that women were props—accessories in the performance of masculinity. Things to collect, belittle, discard. He learned that "no" was just background noise if your last name carried enough weight. That power and money didn’t just buy comfort—they bought permission.

Jack Morrison thought he was untouchable.

He was wrong.

We had enough to destroy everything that mattered to him.

Football first.

Recordings of academic cheating delivered with the bored confidence of someone who’d never faced consequences. Performance-enhancing drugs turning his highlight reels into elaborate fraud. Papers written by other students while he collected scholarships meant for people who actually worked.

Then college prospects.

Party footage—cocaine treated like a vitamin supplement. Sexual harassment served casually, like it was a personality quirk. Girls humiliated publicly because he knew his family’s name worked like diplomatic immunity.

Then reputation.

The slow, methodical exposure of how he dismantled Sofia piece by piece. The manipulation. The cruelty. The way he broke her down and acted shocked when she didn’t bounce back grateful.

None of it quite enough for jail. Not with his family’s lawyers, not with evidence that could be "misplaced" or recontextualized into ambiguity. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

But more than enough to make him radioactive.

Enough that recruiters would quietly stop calling. That scholarship committees would regretfully move in another direction. That employers would Google his name, pause, and decide there were safer investments.

I wasn’t sending him to prison.

I was sending him nowhere.

He becomes efficient.

Because if I was going to ruin someone’s life, I wasn’t doing it sloppily. I was doing it professionally. I wanted spectacle. I wanted precision. I wanted him to remember the exact second his future disintegrated—pen in hand, cameras flashing, dreams crystallized just long enough to be pulverized.

The gate slid open as I approached, sensors recognizing the Hunter’s signature like the house itself knew its monster was coming home. I rolled into the driveway, the mansion rising ahead of me—warm lights in every window, the kind of place that radiated family without trying. Safety. Love.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify