Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 815

Chapter 815: A Mother’s Fear

"And how do you expect me to react to that, huh?!"

Dr. Maria voice cracked through the living room like a whip that had clearly missed anger-management training. The windows didn’t actually rattle—physics has standards—but they definitely considered it.

Her dark eyes (the exact pair she’d generously donated to her daughter at birth, no refunds) burned with the same fury she usually reserved for residents who couldn’t tell a scalpel from a soup spoon, hospital admins who thought "budget cuts" was a personality trait, and anyone foolish enough to page her during Gilmore Girls reruns.

But never at Valentina. Not like this. Not with the full nuclear-mother glare.

"Smile?" Maria kept going, stalking the hardwood like a surgeon pacing before a malpractice deposition. "Meet up with him and we talk like I’m so grateful he took my daughter and added her to this—this polycule clearance sale? A harem?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?

"I raised you better than that, Valentina. I raised you to at least demand royalties if you’re going to be part of someone’s collectible series!"

Valentina sat on the couch, hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for Communion instead of an execution. She’d known this conversation would be a bloodbath.

That’s why she’d spent the last six weeks inventing dental emergencies, surprise fourteen-hour shifts, and one very creative excuse chain. But immortality isn’t on the market yet, so hiding was no longer an option.

And she was done apologizing for finally finding people who made her feel like she belonged somewhere instead of just... tolerated.

"Mom—"

"Don’t you ’Mom’ me like I’m about to hand you cookies!" Maria spun, finger out like she was about to perform an emergency tracheotomy with it. "Do you have any idea what you’re telling me? My daughter—my brilliant, beautiful, could-have-been-a-senator-or-at-least-married-one daughter—is splitting one man with how many women? Ten? Twenty? Is there a group chat? Do you have assigned seating? A chore wheel?"

"It’s not like that—"

"Then what IS it like, Valentina? Use small words. Because from where I’m standing it looks like you took every lecture I ever gave you about self-respect, dipped it in kerosene, and used it to light a romantic bonfire."

The words landed like a wet palm across the face.

Valentina’s jaw locked. Something hot and sharp climbed her throat—less hurt little girl and more cornered panther deciding whether to scratch or bite.

She’d come braced for disappointment. For statistics about STD rates and inheritance disputes. For the classic guilt trip. She had not come prepared for her mother to stare at her like she’d just confessed to joining a cult that worships expired yogurt.

"You don’t know him," Valentina said, voice steadier than her pulse. "You’ve never met him. You’ve never seen how he treats me—how he treats all of us. But you’re ready to diagnose him as Human Trash™ based on... what? The headcount?"

"That headcount alone is enough to get him banned from every decent family reunion for three generations!" Maria’s voice was pure venom now. "No—he’s worse. He’s somehow convinced you that being one of seventeen is a personality upgrade. That you deserve to be some man’s... his..."

"His what, Mom?" Valentina rose slowly, voice dropping into that register doctors use right before they say we did everything we could.

"Go ahead. Say the word you’re choking on. Slut? Concubine? Side piece with benefits and emotional labor included?"

Maria’s mouth opened, closed, opened again—like a goldfish auditioning for a horror movie.

"You can’t even say it, can you?" Valentina took one step closer. "Because even you know it sounds like something a bitter 1950s advice columnist would scream before clutching her pearls and dying of irony."

"I’m not his plaything. I’m not a notch. I’m his partner. Yes—one of several. But a partner who is respected. Valued. Loved. You remember love, right? That thing you keep swearing died with chivalry and house calls?"

"Love?" Maria barked a laugh so brittle it could’ve cut glass. "You think that’s love? A man who treats women like he’s curating a Pokémon deck—gotta catch ’em all?"

"He doesn’t collect us. He chooses us. And we choose him. Every morning we wake up and decide—again—that this is worth it. That’s more commitment than most monogamous marriages get before the seven-year itch turns into a full-body rash."

"That’s not how relationships work!"

"Maybe not the relationships you’ve suffered through." Valentina’s tone sharpened to a surgical edge. "But then again, your highlight reel of romantic success isn’t exactly Netflix material, is it?"

Maria flinched like someone had just slapped her with her own medical license.

"When did Dad ever choose you like that?" Valentina asked, quieter now, but the blade was still in. "When did he ever actually listen when you spoke for longer than it took to order takeout? When did he show up when you were falling apart? When did he ever once make you feel like you were the center of his universe instead of just... convenient until some shinier woman walked by?"

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