Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 925

Chapter 925: Cuckold and Furious Father

Dominic was breathing like he’d just done CrossFit for the first time, and his body was filing a formal, complete with emotional damages and a demand for hazard pay.

Wet hand still hovering. Chest heaving. Face cycling through colors like a mood ring having a seizure in the middle of a psychedelic crisis.

The whole office smelled like sex and the slow, theatrical death of a man’s ego—somewhere between a high-end perfume called "Regret" and the faint, unmistakable tang of a marriage that had just been publicly vivisected with surgical precision and zero anesthesia.

Somewhere in this building a janitor was going to find this room tomorrow and just... quit.

Just keys on the desk, a long drive home, and a sudden, burning desire to move to a monastery in Tibet where nobody ever had sex on mahogany desks.

I didn’t even look at him at first.

I fixed my belt. Slow. Buckle through the loop.

The way you’d do it at home before grabbing cereal on a lazy Tuesday morning. Pure Tuesday energy.

Dominic’s whole identity just got ctrl+alt+deleted in front of a live studio audience and I was out here adjusting my waistband like I was about to check the mail or see if the pizza guy had arrived yet.

He wiped his hand on his slacks. Finally. Fast and desperate—like that motion could erase what his palm had touched, could rewind time, could un-hear the words his wife had screamed loud enough to register on the building’s seismic monitors.

It left a faint streak on the gray fabric that caught the light like a crime scene photo in a documentary nobody wanted to watch.

Everyone saw it.

"You—you fucking—" Dominic’s voice came out like an engine that wouldn’t turn over, sputtering and coughing and refusing to start. "You’re a FUCKING KID."

I looked at him.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

This man was wearing a Brunello Cucinelli blazer with boat shoes. BOAT SHOES. In an office building.

In Hollywood. My guy looked like a J.Crew catalog fucked a mid-level finance bro and the baby grew up to marry above his tax bracket, then bought a yacht he never used because he got seasick just looking at the ocean.

This was who she’d been sleeping next to every night? This was the competition? No cap, if you put this man in a lineup with a store mannequin, the mannequin would have more going on—better posture, sharper jawline, and at least the dignity not to wear boat shoes indoors.

"A PUNK," he continued, stepping forward. "You come into MY building—you touch MY WIFE—"

"Technically she touched me first with her feet," I said. "I was just sitting there."

Wrong thing to say for de-escalation purposes. Perfect thing to say for comedy purposes. Dominic’s face went so red I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel and redecorate the ceiling in a modern art installation titled "Marital Rage #47."

"I’LL FUCKING DESTROY YOU—"

He stepped into my space. Close. Scotch breath and expensive aftershave and the sour undertone of a man whose adrenal glands were doing overtime while his dignity filed for unemployment. His fist clenched at his side. Jaw working.

He was trying to look intimidating. He was giving Dollar Store Liam Neeson.

I didn’t move.

Not an inch. Let him stand there—three inches from my face—and feel the fact that he’d already lunged once and I’d sidestepped it like a QTE prompt in a cutscene I’d already played through three times on easy mode.

"I will END you," he said. Quieter now. Trying for dangerous. Landing on desperate. "Do you understand me? I will have you arrested. I’ll call the police. Statutory—you’re a MINOR, you sick fuck, she’s thirty-one—"

"I’m eighteen," I lied. Smoothly. Without blinking. "And she’s incredible. You should know that. You married her."

That one landed different.

Not as a comeback. As a fact. Dominic’s mouth opened. Closed. The word married hung in the air between us like smoke from a funeral pyre he’d just realized was his own.

Gerald finally spoke.

"Everyone out." His voice was gravel. Old gravel. The voice of a man who’d spent thirty years running a company and had never once imagined he’d need to use that voice in this specific situation—his daughter’s office turned into a live-action cuckoldry documentary with no commercial breaks.

"NOW."

Nobody moved. The employees in the doorway were frozen—not from obedience but from the sheer psychological impossibility of looking away from this. This was better than anything Ashworth-Mead had ever produced.

"I SAID OUT."

The comparison registered on her face in real time—the way people’s faces change when they see a Honda parked next to a Lamborghini.

Not judgment. Just... math. Cold, unforgiving, workplace-gossip math.

Four people in the room now. Gerald. Dominic. Eziel behind me. And the teenage god who’d just rearranged their entire family tree with his dick and a smile.

Fr fr, if someone had told me six months ago that I’d be standing shirtless in a Hollywood executive’s office after fucking his daughter for three hours while he drank scotch to celebrate a deal I’d already won, I would have said yeah that sounds about right because apparently my life is a Netflix series that God writes while drunk, high, and taking notes from Greek tragedy fanfiction.

"Son," he said. And the word dripped with the specific condescension of a man who called everyone under forty son, like it was a title he’d invented. "I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you think you’ve accomplished here tonight. But I know what this looks like. And I know what happens when stories like this get out."

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