Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 784

Chapter 784: Jack Crafted Reality

The rooftop of Lincoln Heights High tasted like ash, broken glass, and the exact sour flavor of failure that hits when you realize the universe didn’t just fuck you over—it singled you out, bent you over, and laughed while it did.

Jack Morrison—six-foot-three, two hundred fifteen pounds of what used to be flawless, carved-from-marble perfection—gripped the rusted railing until the metal groaned and his knuckles split white, then red. The November wind ripped across the concrete like it was hunting for soft spots, dragging LA smog, the threat of rain, and the faint, rotting smell of his own collapsing future.

Below him, Lincoln Heights laid itself bare like a coroner’s report on everything he’d ever been.

East side: Victorian mansions with wraparound porches, lawns so green they looked photoshopped, BMWs and Range Rovers gleaming under security lights like they knew they were better than everything else. His bloodline’s territory. His birthright. Three generations of Morrison men who’d walked this city like they owned the air itself—because they basically did. Kings didn’t need to prove shit when the crown came pre-installed in the DNA.

West side: sagging apartment blocks patched with hope and government vouchers, corner stores with iron bars over the windows, cars on cinder blocks or held together with duct tape and prayers. The side of town where people like Peter Carter were supposed to stay buried. Supposed to crawl. Supposed to know their place.

Except Peter Carter wasn’t crawling anymore.

He was flying.

And Jack—Jack was the one eating dirt now, choking on handfuls of it, drowning in the grave Peter had dug with nothing but time, silence, and the kind of patient hate that turns boys into legends.

The phone in his pocket buzzed again. Fifth time in ten minutes. He yanked it out, stared at the screen, and felt something cold and final settle in his gut.

Instagram notification: @tommy_chen tagged you in a post

Thumb moved before his brain could stop it. App opened. Post loaded.

There it was. The blade. Still lodged deep, still turning.

Peter Carter—Peter fucking Carter—leaning against a blacked-out Rolls-Royce Phantom that cost more than Jack’s dad’s last divorce lawyer bill.

Arm draped around Madison Torres like she belonged there. She had her head on his shoulder, long hair spilling over his chest, eyes half-lidded in that post-fuck glow that used to be reserved for Jack. Peter’s hand rested low on her waist, fingers spread wide, possessive, claiming. Both of them smiling—slow, satisfied, the kind of smile that says they’d already fucked senseless that morning and were already planning round two.

Caption: "From nothing to everything. Thanks to everyone who believed in my brother 🙏"

Forty-three thousand likes. Four thousand comments. Climbing fast.

King energy fr fr How tf did bro glow up THIS hard??? Madison and Peter clearing every other couple This is what happens when good people finally win

Jack’s vision bled red at the edges.

Good people.

Good fucking people.

Peter Carter—the kid who’d spent eight years swallowing Jack’s fists, Jack’s words, Jack’s spit in the hallway, the kid who’d flinched at every shoulder-check and still showed up the next day—was a good person now.

The underdog who clawed his way up. The main character in a story where Jack was the cartoon villain everyone paid to see get curb-stomped.

And the worst part?

They were right.

And now the whole school—hell, the whole internet—was crowning him.

The hero. The comeback king. The protagonist.

Jack was the villain everyone rooted against. And they were right.

He’d loved being the villain. Loved the way hallways parted when he walked through. Loved the way girls whispered his name like a prayer or a curse depending on how wet they were that day. Loved the power to make someone smaller just by looking at them. Loved that he could hurt people and they’d still beg for his attention, still spread for him, still tell their friends how good he was—even when he knew the truth.

Because the truth was the one thing he’d buried deeper than any grave.

And Jack?

Jack was alone on a rooftop, scrolling through his own public execution, four thousand strangers cheering every fresh cut.

His hands shook so hard the phone screen spiderwebbed—not from impact, just from the raw fury leaking out of his pores and into the glass.

He should smash it. Hurl it off the edge. Watch it explode five stories down on the pavement like his life already had.

But he couldn’t look away.

Because that photo—Peter’s calm, victorious smirk, Madison’s head on his shoulder, the Rolls-Royce gleaming like a middle finger—was the only heat left in his chest.

Hate was all he had now. And it burned hotter than any love he’d ever faked.

Three months ago, Jack Morrison had been a god.

Wealth that arrived before he asked for it. Status that made college recruiters drool and forget about his test scores.

Except for one flaw. One tiny, vicious, soul-eating detail he’d spent his entire teenage life overcompensating for.

"Is that... it?" she’d asked, looking down like she’d expected more and found a joke instead.

So, he’d built an empire on top of it. He’d fucked harder, longer (with toys, fingers, tongue—anything to keep them moaning instead of laughing). He’d made girls come so many times with toys and other improvisions they forgot to check the size.

That’s where Sofia came in.

Sofia Delgado—soft-spoken, doe-eyed, the kind of girl who apologized even when you stepped on her—had been fucking perfect.

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