Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 954

Chapter 954: Art Warfare

When Rich People Turn Art Into Warfare

The bidding war was already heating up when Aurelia Royce made her move.

She didn’t just raise her paddle. She didn’t politely offer the next increment like everyone else playing by the unspoken rules of auction etiquette.

She sat down in one of the velvet chairs near the front with the confidence of someone about to end a war before it started, and announced in a voice that carried across the entire gallery:

"Two million dollars."

Holy shit.

The room went completely silent for about three seconds—that pregnant pause where everyone’s brain needs to recalculate what the fuck just happened.

She’d just increased the bid by five hundred thousand dollars in one move. That wasn’t participating in an auction—that was declaring dominance. Setting the stage. Making it clear that she wasn’t here to play games with incremental raises.

Aurelia Royce just dropped two million on my painting like she was buying coffee. The corporate vulture has officially entered the chat.

Celeste’s professional smile widened into something genuinely delighted. This was the kind of drama that made auction houses legendary.

"We have two million dollars from the lady in black velvet!" Celeste announced, her voice carrying that theatrical enthusiasm. "Do I hear two million one hundred thousand?"

Oh, this is about to get absolutely insane.

For a moment, silence hung in the air like everyone was processing whether they actually wanted to compete with someone who just casually threw down two million.

Then a man in the back—some oil executive type with the kind of watch that cost more than cars—raised his paddle.

"Two million two hundred thousand!"

And we’re off to the races.

A woman near the center, dripping in diamonds that screamed "tech industry money," countered immediately.

"Two million five hundred thousand!"

She just jumped three hundred thousand like it’s pocket change. Rich people are absolutely unhinged.

Another voice from the side—male, confident, probably hedge fund energy.

"Two million seven hundred thousand!"

Elise Montclair, sat near her brother Theo, raised her paddle with the casual grace of someone who’d been doing this since she could walk.

"Three million dollars," she announced, her voice carrying that finishing-school polish.

The Montclair sister just entered the arena. This was getting better by the second.

The bidding continued to escalate with the kind of competitive fervor that made auction houses wet dreams and accountants nervous breakdowns.

"Three million two!"

"Three million five!"

"Three million eight!"

"Four million dollars!" A new voice—some tech CEO maybe? The type who probably saw this as a power move more than an art purchase.

Four million dollars for a painting about my sexual complexity and emotional void. This is either the best night of my life or proof that rich people have completely lost their minds.

From my seat between Charlotte and Madison, I watched the war unfold with the kind of detached fascination usually reserved for watching nature documentaries about predators fighting over territory.

Except the territory is my art, and the predators are billionaires in evening wear.

Charlotte leaned over slightly, her voice quiet. "They’re not just buying the art."

"I know," I murmured back.

They’re buying access. Connection. The chance to make an impression on the mysterious artist nobody knows.

Madison’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing gently. Her eyes were sparkling with the kind of excitement that came from watching her boyfriend’s work get valued at millions.

My girlfriend was getting off on watching rich people fight over my emotional issues rendered in oil paint. This relationship is perfect.

The bidding continued its upward climb.

"Four million three!"

"Four million six!"

"Four million eight!"

"Five million dollars!" The oil executive again, his voice carrying determination.

They know. They fucking know who I am, or at least know enough to understand that the artist behind this work is connected to something bigger.

"Five million two hundred thousand!"

"Five million five hundred thousand!" A woman’s voice, cutting and confident.

Final boss energy from all four of them.

"Five million seven hundred thousand!" One of the men, his voice starting to show strain.

"Six million!" Another man, going for the psychological impact of a round number.

"Six million three!" The third man, refusing to back down.

They’re all trying to outlast each other, but they’re not accounting for the corporate predator in designer clothing.

"Six million seven hundred thousand dollars."

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