Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 809

Chapter 809: Luna’s Journey

[Girl Who Had Everything Except Warmth]

Luna Valentina had always been told she was lucky.

Not in a jealous way. Not in a must-be-nice way. In that casual, dismissive tone people used when they wanted to end a conversation without thinking too hard about it.

You’re lucky.Like that explained everything.

And on paper, she absolutely was.

Her parents had money. Not buy-a-private-island-and-name-it-after-the-dog money, but enough that bills were invisible and groceries just... appeared. The fridge was always full. The lights were always on. She never had to choose between gas and lunch or pretend she wasn’t hungry because it was cheaper to skip meals.

That kind of rich. The quiet kind. The kind that pretended it was normal and expected gratitude in exchange.

Her mother was the director of Mercy Hospital.

Which meant power.

Not the loud kind. Not the flashy kind. The institutional kind. The kind that made nurses straighten their backs and lower their voices when she walked by. The kind that turned conversations into favors, favors into leverage, and leverage into silence. The kind that didn’t need to threaten because everyone already knew what would happen if you disappointed her.

Doors opened for Luna because of that title. Mouths closed because of it too.

Her father was... present on paper.

He existed as a voice on speakerphone, always mid-flight, always apologizing for missing something important and promising to make it up to her next time. He was a blur of suitcases and hotel rooms and vague affection delivered through emojis and wire transfers.

Emotionally, he was like a ghost with a credit card.

Luna went to the right schools. Wore the right clothes. Drove the right car. Smiled at the right people. She did all the things a good daughter was supposed to do—the kind that looked impressive in Christmas letters and alumni newsletters.

And she was completely, painfully alone.

Not the dramatic kind of alone. Not sobbing-on-the-floor or blasting sad music alone.

The quiet kind.

The kind that settled into your bones so slowly you didn’t notice until one day you realized you couldn’t remember the last time someone hugged you without expecting something in return. The kind where compliments felt hollow, like applause from people who hadn’t actually watched the performance. The kind where you smiled automatically and felt nothing underneath it.

Her mother loved her the way CEOs loved quarterly reports.

Results mattered. Optics mattered. Feelings were inefficient.

Every achievement was expected. Every mistake was a failure of discipline. Praise came with conditions. Criticism came wrapped in professional language—just constructive feedback, just pushing you to be your best.

Love, in the Valentina household, was transactional.

Her father opted out entirely. He funded her existence and considered his job done. If neglect were an Olympic sport, he’d have won gold and still missed the ceremony.

So, Luna learned early what not to expect.

She was beautiful—she knew that. She wasn’t stupid or humble enough to pretend otherwise. She saw the way boys looked at her, like she was something they could imagine alone in the dark. She heard the rumors, felt her name move through lockers and group chats like a shared fantasy.

She smiled politely. Let them think she was flattered.

Inside, she felt absolutely nothing.

She’d had boyfriends. Two? Three? More? She couldn’t remember without effort, which told her everything she needed to know. They wanted her body. Wanted to be seen with her. Wanted the social credit that came with dating the hot hospital director’s daughter.

None of them wanted her.

None of them asked what she was thinking. None of them noticed when her smile didn’t reach her eyes. None of them cared about the silence she carried around like an extra organ.

So she graduated.

Top of her nursing class—because failure wasn’t an option when your mother was watching from the director’s office like a hawk with a clipboard. She landed a job at Lincoln High School as the school nurse, a position that should have been competitive but somehow became hers after a few phone calls from Mommy Dearest.

Luna pretended she’d earned it on merit.

She almost believed it some days.

[The Boy Who Kept Coming Back]

She noticed him almost immediately.

Peter Carter.

His name started appearing on the infirmary sign-in sheet with disturbing regularity. Other students came once, maybe twice a semester—sprained ankles, migraines, period cramps, panic attacks fueled by caffeine and academic pressure.

Peter came every week.

Sometimes more.

At first, she treated him like everyone else. Same professional tone. Same gentle smile. Same clipboard routine.

"What happened?" she’d ask.

"Playing went wrong."

Every time.

Same words. Same flat delivery. Like he’d memorized the line and refused to revise it.

The injuries told the truth he wouldn’t.

"Peter," she said gently once, cleaning a cut, "if someone’s hurting you, you can tell me. I can report it. We can—"

"Playing went wrong."

"The principal needs to know if a student is being assaulted. I can walk you there. I can stay with you."

"Playing went wrong."

She talked to teachers. Then counselors. Then the principal. She laid out the patterns, the injuries, the timing. She didn’t accuse. She begged.

Peter denied everything. Without his cooperation, there was nothing they could do. The accused—Jack Morrison, golden boy quarterback, future scholarship, son of a hospital owner who happened to be her mother’s boss too—had alibis, friends, money, and a smile that made problems disappear.

Week after week she stitched the same fucking boy back together.

Luna started waiting for him.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify