Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 948

Chapter 948: Karma’s Double-Edged Sword

Karma wasn’t just a bitch who came for Peter’s enemies—sometimes she showed up for him too, dressed to kill and carrying receipts on everyone.

Because the universe has a fucked-up sense of humor and timing.

The click of heels hit the marble floor first.

One sharp sound. Then another. Then the rhythm of it—deliberate, unhurried, the cadence of a woman who had never once in her entire life entered a room unprepared or uncertain about her right to be there.

It shouldn’t have cut through the ambient noise of a gallery packed with billionaires and expensive conversations about art nobody actually understood. There were hundreds of people here. Dozens of women in designer heels that probably cost more than my mom’s monthly salary.

But these heels were different.

And the entire room knew it before anyone even turned around.

Aurelia Royce’s icy presence pulled every eyeball in the room onto her without her even trying—without her needing to perform the way some women did, pausing at the threshold or angling themselves toward the best lighting like Instagram models hunting for the perfect shot.

She just walked in, and the entire fucking room rearranged itself around the fact of her existence.

Because Aurelia Royce understood something most people never figured out: presence isn’t something you project.

It’s something you either have or you don’t.

And this woman had it in spades.

She wore black velvet that swept all the way to the floor—a gown that dragged behind her like a royal cape, cut off one shoulder with a sweetheart neckline that was low enough to be absolutely intentional and high enough to be devastatingly effective.

A deep red slash lined the high slit on one side, the same crimson red that crossed her bare shoulder like something between a fashion detail and a fucking statement of war.

Red and black. How very "I’m here to ruin your entire evening" of her.

The velvet moved with her body, fitted through every curve the way expensive fabric does when it’s been custom-made for a specific woman and literally no one else could wear it. Her tits filled the neckline perfectly.

Her hips filled the skirt.

The whole silhouette was the kind that made artists reach for their paintbrushes and architects reconsider their entire career path.

Gods. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

If she wasn’t one of the most breathtaking people in this room—apart from my women, obviously—then the word "breathtaking" needed to be retired and replaced with something more accurate.

Like "walking catastrophe in couture."

Her hair was styled in some elaborate updo that probably required an engineering degree and a team of professionals, with a few strategic strands artfully framing a face that belonged on Renaissance paintings hanging in museums where people whispered reverently.

Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Full lips painted dark burgundy like expensive wine. Eyes so ice-blue they looked almost colorless in certain lighting, like someone had sucked all the warmth out and replaced it with liquid nitrogen.

She was stunning. Dangerous. And absolutely, completely unwelcome.

Just what this evening needed—corporate warfare in evening wear.

She scanned the room once with those ice-chip eyes.

Just once. Five seconds, maybe less—calculating exits, identifying clusters, measuring weight distribution, determining who actually mattered and who was just expensive decoration.

Her gaze found Charlotte Thompson.

And a smile touched the corner of Aurelia’s mouth.

Definitely not the soft uncertain smile of a woman who’d said terrible things on international television and had spent the last year feeling guilty about it.

Nothing remotely close to remorse.

This was something older than warmth. Sharper than any apology. The specific satisfaction of a woman who had done the math before walking in the door and found her answer exactly where she’d expected to find it.

She came here knowing Charlotte would be present. This isn’t a coincidence—it’s a calculated move.

Unfortunately for Charlotte Thompson, she happened to be standing not too far from the entrance when Aurelia Royce swept into the auction hall like winter itself had taken human form and decided to fuck up everyone’s evening.

Amanda Torres saw it happen.

She was across the room when Aurelia entered—had been mid-conversation with one of the evening’s investors, probably discussing quarterly projections or whatever rich people talked about at art galleries—and she felt the atmospheric shift before she even understood what caused it.

That particular redistribution of attention that happened when someone genuinely powerful moved into a space and changed the entire energy.

Like when a apex predator enters the watering hole and all the other animals suddenly remember they’re made of meat.

Amanda turned, tracked the source, and moved toward Celeste in three efficient steps.

"Did you invite her?" Amanda’s voice carried that edge that meant someone was about to get fired or murdered, possibly both.

Ah, the classic "who fucked up" executive tone.

Celeste followed Amanda’s eyeline toward the walking winter storm in velvet. Something crossed her face—not panic, because Celeste Beaumont didn’t do panic, but her composed gallery-owner mask developed a visible hairline fracture.

Translation: she’s about to have a very polite nervous breakdown.

"I... no. I don’t even know who that is."

CIA-trained instincts don’t retire just because you’re at a fancy art auction and working for a seventeen-year-old billionaire.

"She wasn’t on the invitation list," Helena confirmed quietly, her voice carrying that professional calm that meant shit was about to get very complicated. "I personally vetted every single guest. Aurelia Royce did not receive an invitation card."

Which means she crashed this event like a corporate terrorist with excellent taste in evening wear.

Her assistant had told her what Charlotte said when Aurelia’s office tried scheduling a meeting last week. The exact words, delivered with Charlotte Thompson’s characteristic bluntness, had been: "Tell them to go to hell."

’Okay, that’s pretty badass. Respect to Charlotte for that one.’

But if Charlotte thought Aurelia was here to apologize, to beg for another chance at a meeting, to grovel for forgiveness like some kind of reformed villain seeking redemption—

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