Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 968

Chapter 968: The Luckiest Bastard Alive

I was the luckiest bastard alive.

If I have to tattoo that sentence on my own forehead so I never forget it, fine. Consider it done.

I didn’t hunt these women down like some tragic pickup artist with a spreadsheet and a neckbeard.

No.

The universe literally gift-wrapped them for me at the exact moment their marriages had decayed into beige resentment and mutual hostage situations.

Year five, year twelve, year twenty-three—didn’t matter. The timeline always looked the same: spark → routine → quiet contempt → guest bedroom resentment → separate vacations → "we’re just growing apart" → me sliding in like the final boss of better orgasms.

Cosmic luck? Or the statistical inevitability that every long-term relationship eventually turns into a shared lease on emotional furniture nobody wants to sit on anymore?

Both. Definitely both.

Every single one of them had a different flavor of husband-failure:

The "I provide, therefore I’m done trying" guy

The "my work is my mistress and also my personality" guy

The "I’ll fix it next year" guy who said that for nine years straight

The "smooth jazz at dinner, missionary on anniversaries, zero questions asked" guy

Different names. Different tax brackets. Same obituary for desire.

And the constant through all of it? Me.

I didn’t even have to try that hard. One look. One sentence. One second of actually seeing them instead of looking through them like they were background scenery in their own lives.

That was enough. My presence hit like smelling salts to a coma patient. Years of swallowed wants, deferred orgasms, and "maybe next time" promises just... evaporated.

If some sanctimonious Reddit thread ever called me a Demon Incubus Prince who could summon women’s darkest cravings and make them act like they’d never heard the word "consequences" before? I wouldn’t even ask for a paternity test of who my Demon father and Demon mother are.

I’d just nod, sip my drink, and say: "Yeah. Checks out."

Because look at the fucking evidence.

Right now: modified Lamborghini, Los Angeles midnight, another man’s wife riding shotgun wearing nothing but my charcoal jacket and a post-orgasmic glow that could power streetlights. Hair whipping behind her like she’d just escaped maximum-security monogamy.

Screaming—not in fear, in revival-meeting ecstasy—into the wind because for the first time in God knows how long she remembered what being alive actually felt like.

I swung the Lambo wide through curve. Rear end kicked out clean, controlled, deliberate. Tires shrieked. Genevieve’s hand slapped the dash but her mouth was already open in a howl that had zero to do with survival instinct and everything to do with remembering she had a pulse.

I straightened her out. Engine dropped back to that predatory purr. She turned those obsidian eyes on me—pupils blown, chest rising and falling like she’d just sprinted a decade of repression—and rasped one word:

"Again."

So, I obliged.

But first she leaned forward, no hesitation, no "may I?", and started stabbing at the dash screen like she’d designed the UI herself. Flicked past ARIA’s tasteful nighttime playlists—classical, jazz, lo-fi chill beats for sad boys with too much money—until she found what she wanted.

Hip-hop.

I watched her for exactly three seconds—three seconds of Genevieve bathed in dashboard glow, wearing moonlight and my jacket like reclaimed territory, rolling her hips to a beat that would’ve given her husband arrhythmia—and thought:

Yeah. She’s gonna slide right into the collection like she was always meant to be there.

Full three-sixty.

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