Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 804

Chapter 804: Senithe~

Then footsteps—measured, eager, the stride of a man who had just finished dessert and was already anticipating the next course.

He stopped beside her. She felt his smile without looking—the particular curvature of lips that said he was proud of his work and hoping she’d noticed.

Removed her sunglasses with deliberate slowness, folding the arms with a soft, final click that somehow carried more weight than the earlier screams.

He opened his arms—wide, welcoming, the gesture of a man greeting his favorite co-conspirator, perhaps his favorite obsession.

She placed the folded glasses against the center of his chest and pushed.

Not hard. Not angry. Just... no. Know your place.

His arms dropped like marionette strings cut mid-performance. The smile flickered—almost died—then rallied, stubborn as ever.

"Did it fail?" she asked. Voice flat. Clinical. The tone one uses when inquiring about weather patterns on a planet one has already decided to ignore.

The Dark Regent laughed—genuine, delighted, the laugh of someone who had just been reminded how much fun it was to lose.

"The mission?" He gestured lazily at the blood-soaked putting green, the crimson Rorschach still spreading. "No, no—flawless execution. Everything delivered precisely as ordered. I was merely..." He shrugged, still smiling, still bleeding enthusiasm. "Conducting a small performance review. You know how particular I am about punctuations."

She made a small sound—neither agreement nor dismissal. Simply acknowledgment that he existed and was speaking.

Then she turned away and stepped past the railing.

Onto the deepest of the ledge.

Sixty-three floors of nothing waited below. One stray gust, one moment of inattention, and gravity would collect its due in spectacular fashion. She stood there as though the drop were a minor inconvenience—like a crack in the sidewalk she had decided not to step over.

The Dark Regent watched.

Couldn’t help himself.

His gaze traced her outline against the blazing afternoon sky: the long fall of her coat, the elegant curve of hips that seemed engineered to remind lesser beings of their place, legs that appeared to continue indefinitely.

The sun haloed her, turning her silhouette into something almost liturgical.

And he—billionaire, torturer, a deity—was standing squarely in the shadow she cast.

The realization landed like cold water down his spine.

Her darkness swallowed him whole.

A man who could make boardrooms tremble, who could reduce loyal men to red smears for the sin of slight improvisation, who routinely lived as a god among humans—

Reduced, in this single frame, to a figure dwarfed by the outline of a woman who hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge his existence yet.

She sighed—soft, world-weary, the sigh of someone who had heard every pickup line in creation and still found them mildly amusing.

"Men," she said without turning. "Always lustful for what they can’t have. Always overlooking what they already possess."

He stiffened. Caught.

She didn’t care.

Any creature who had spent more than five minutes in her orbit understood the fundamental law: she was not acquired. Not seduced. Not conquered. No pulse-bearing man in this reality—or any adjacent one—could ever claim even a fraction of her attention, let alone her body.

Ever.

The Dark Regent cleared his throat—once, twice—then stepped to the edge beside her. Not on the ledge. He wasn’t suicidal. But close enough that her shadow no longer completely eclipsed him.

"Your mission," he said, voice steadier now. "How did it go?"

She smirked—small, sharp, the kind of smile that could cut glass.

"What do you think."

Not a question. A statement of fact dressed in the clothing of inquiry. If it was a question at all, it was asking him to consider whether she had ever failed at anything.

He nodded slowly. Of course.

"You didn’t have to handle it personally," he offered, almost playful. "The Collector Maiden would have managed. The Oathfinders would have been overjoyed for the opportunity."

She tilted her head—acknowledgment without concession.

"Of course they would have," she said. "After all, I was only retrieving a handful of ordinary humans. Nothing that demanded my... direct intervention."

A pause.

Then that private smile again—small, secret, the expression of someone who had already read the final page of every story currently unfolding.

"Still," she added, voice dropping to something almost fond, "sometimes it’s nice to stretch the legs. Remind the universe who still holds the pen."

"And this mission was one I had to do myself."

The Dark Regent studied her profile. The curve of her lips. The set of her jaw.

"Boss’s orders?"

She didn’t answer. Didn’t confirm or deny. Just smiled softly, and somehow that silence said more than words ever could.

He tried another angle.

"How is the Boss?"

"Fine." She kept her eyes on the city below. "As long as everything works as planned and expected, the Boss remains... content."

"Of course." The Dark Regent nodded. Eager to please. Eager to prove his worth. "Anyway, the mission is a success—Marcus Webb, Vincent Castellano, and Antonio Rivera have all been delivered. Successfully. Cleanly."

"I know." Her voice carried the barest edge of impatience. "You already told me the mission was successful."

"We were only out done with Dmitri."

"If only—"

"Failing to recruit Helena Voss cannot be helped," she continued, each word precise. "That’s precisely why the Shepherd was sent. The likelihood of success was calculated. The risk was known. No one can be blamed for outcomes that fell within acceptable probability ranges."

She turned to face him fully. And there was something in her eyes now—not glowing, not yet, but present. Something that reminded him exactly who he was talking to and exactly how far beneath her he stood.

"The Boss knew that. Everyone knew that. The Shepherd knew it most of all."

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