Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 844

Chapter 844: Visions of Grandeur

No questions. No skepticism. Just awe.

That’s how we’d keep Quantum Tech balanced. Revolutionary tech from ARIA’s shadow operations. Impressive-but-believable innovations from Tommy’s public team.

Quantum Tech’s five hundred employees? They thought Tommy was a genius and Charlotte was a visionary leader who had seen the young talent and hired him.

Yes, he was.

They just had no idea a goddess was doing the rest of the work.

Liberation Funds was different.

That? Would never have human employees. Period.

My harem ran it—my women learning financial strategy while ARIA executed trades with timing so perfect it looked like prescience.

Because it basically was. ARIA’s reality-level predictions meant she could see market movements before they happened. Not magic. Just processing so much global data in real-time that events became calculable, inevitable, already priced in before the rest of the world even smelled the trend.

By year-end we’d be managing $100 billion. By year two? Half a trillion.

Realistically to most people that was impossible, but I had a plan—and with ARIA and T.AGI, Nexus, the war chest, and rich clients begging to park money with us?

That was a walk in the park.

And nobody outside the harem would ever know how we did it.

Some companies needed human faces. Liberation Funds needed absolute secrecy.

No board meetings. No quarterly calls. No "synergy" PowerPoints. Just my women making decisions, ARIA pulling the trigger, and the markets bleeding profits into our accounts like they were born to serve.

I’d also need to merge the Miami acquisitions soon. The five companies I’d bought—I’d consolidate them into three, fold the tech-related ones under Quantum Tech as subsidiaries. Cleaner structure. Better operational efficiency.

ARIA would handle the legal paperwork and regulatory approval. Probably already had it halfway done—drafted, filed, rubber-stamped in less time it took me to piss.

She didn’t wait for me to ask; she anticipated the need and executed while I was still thinking the thought.

Quantum Home would launch after. Smart home technology that made current systems look like toys from the 90s. Homes that learned occupants, adjusted automatically, predicted needs before they were voiced—lights dimming when your pupils dilated, temperature shifting when your skin temperature rose half a degree, coffee brewing the second your REM cycle ended.

All powered by quantum chips that made Alexa look like a Speak & Spell with a learning disability.

But all that was planning for later.

Right now—this morning, this moment—I had more crucial shit to focus on.

The missions that actually mattered.

The Trillion Dollar Mission. Becoming the richest man alive through anonymous trading. Not just wealthy. Not just billionaire. Trillionaire. Operating through accounts so layered that even if every government on Earth held hands and formed a circle-jerk of intelligence agencies, they still wouldn’t find shit.

Hijacking the global economy. Or liberating it. Mostly hijacking.

Becoming the most feared trader nobody knew existed.

Paris with Meridian Elite Agency—three-month trip. At the same time the high-end escort service for wealthy women would still be running, just that we’d be covering Paris too.

Except I’d be liberating trophy wives while cucking their pathetic husbands.

I’d walk into those rooms with a smile, cock already half-hard under tailored trousers, knowing exactly which wife was starving for real attention, which husband was compensating for a limp dick with a bigger yacht.

I’d fuck them senseless in penthouse suites while their men signed deals downstairs—pussy dripping, ass clenching, throat raw from screaming my name into silk pillows. They’d leave marked, claimed, liberated, and their husbands would never know why their perfect little trophy suddenly looked at them like roadkill.

The porn and toys side missions. Making adult entertainment ethical. Making sex toys that actually worked. Entire industries running on exploitation and mediocrity—plastic dildos that snapped, cam girls crying behind the smile, studios treating performers like meat.

Entire industries running on exploitation, mediocrity, and lies about female pleasure.

I’d burn it down and build something better.

Realistic, body-safe materials that felt like skin. Tech that synced to heart rate, temperature, arousal. Content where performers were paid fairly, protected, respected—and still got to be as filthy as they wanted.

No more icky power dynamics.

Just pleasure without the guilt.

All of it.

The funds. The mergers. The missions. The empire.

All of it building toward the moment when the world looked up and realized the future was today.

Because liberation wasn’t just about pussy. It was about taking every broken, exploitative, mediocre system—financial, sexual, domestic, cultural—and fucking it until it came apart screaming, then rebuilding it cleaner, stronger, fairer.

And I was going to do it all before I turned eighteen.

I looked down at Madison’s sleeping face, her lips still swollen from last night, her thigh draped over mine like she was claiming territory even in dreams.

The sun kept rising.

The taste of the dream was gone now.

Replaced by something cleaner.

Hunger.

For everything.

And I was just getting started

****

There was also the unfinished and half dones.

2. Full commitment to the wellness center. Sexual therapy for women. Helping women heal from trauma while simultaneously experiencing pleasure they’d been taught to deny themselves—orgasms that rewired trauma circuits, touch that erased shame, sessions where tears and screams of release mixed until the line between healing and ecstasy disappeared.

All of it could be called one thing: Liberation Church.

Well, except the trillion-dollar mission. That was just making me obscenely wealthy. Though I guess liberating the economy from the old guard—bleeding their empires dry through perfect, untraceable trades—counted as church work too.

Two empires. Two purposes. One vision.

The fact that I’d lost Linda as just "mom" and now my subconscious was creating elaborate maternal fantasies to cope with the void.

Mommy issues. Undeniable, textbook mommy issues.

But that was a problem for therapy I’d never get.

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