Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 970

Chapter 970: The Luckiest Bastard Alive

She grabbed my face—both hands, full commitment—while I was still piloting the Lambo at triple-digit felony speeds. Kissed me like she was trying to swallow the last years of her life and spit out the bones. Hard. Messy.

Tasted like pure adrenaline, fresh asphalt, rebirth, and the exact brand of beautiful insanity that only hits when a woman stares down a literal canyon drop and decides the lunatic behind the wheel is a better long-term investment than twenty years of polite suffocation.

"More," she breathed against my mouth. "I want more."

Not a suggestion.

A fucking royal decree from a woman who’d spent a decade waiting for permission to want anything at all.

Her phone buzzed again in her lap. His name lighting up the screen like a process server who refuses to take a hint. Persistent little shit. Like a man who just realized his emotional checking account was at -$47,000 and was now trying to Venmo attention into a closed branch.

This time she picked it up.

And answered.

I killed the music volume—just enough. Low enough that the bass still thrummed like background radiation, but high enough to let whatever was about to happen breathe.

Because the way she thumbed that green button? That wasn’t a phone call. That was an execution order.

"Gen? Gen! Where the hell—" His voice exploded through the speaker, all tinny panic and fake authority.

The special octave men hit when they’re trying to sound like the boss while secretly pissing themselves. "I’ve been calling—are you in a car? Who’s that bastard—Gen, you need to come back right now. We can talk about—"

"Daniel."

Her voice cut through his babble like a scalpel through wet tissue. Calm. Level. Quiet in the way landmines are quiet right before they teach you physics. The bass pulsed underneath like a second heartbeat.

"I need you to listen very carefully."

Dead silence on his end. The frantic barking just... stopped. Collapsed into the specific terror of a man who’s hearing a tone from his wife he didn’t know existed.

"I am not your prize, anymore," she said. Each word deliberate, like she was reading from a verdict she’d drafted in blood years ago. "I am not your trophy. Tell that to my parents too, I won’t be talking to them anytime soon."

I locked eyes on the road because looking at her right then felt like staring directly into a welding arc.

"I am not coming back," she continued, voice never wavering. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not to ’talk it through.’ Not to ’work on us.’ Not for the house, not for the name and dignity of my family, not for whatever my family believes I owe you for the privilege of being their third daughter."

She let the silence stretch. Let him marinate in how big it was. How final.

"Goodbye."

She pulled the phone away from her ear. Looked at it one last time—the glowing screen, his name still pulsing like a dying heartbeat, the same device that had tracked her, scheduled her, reminded her she was on-call for his ego 24/7 for a fucking decade.

Then she threw it outside the car.

The phone spun end-over-end through open air, caught one clean flash of moonlight like it was posing for its obituary photo, then vanished over the guardrail into the black maw of the canyon.

Gone.

I stared at the empty window space where several hundred dollars of Apple hardware had just met terminal velocity.

"Did you just—"

"Yep."

"That was—"

"A $1,400 phone. I’m aware." She leaned back, crossed her legs like we were at brunch, tugged my jacket tighter around her shoulders.

"You yeeted it off Mulholland into a canyon."

"Technically a ravine. Canyons are deeper, but ravines have better acoustics for dramatic exits."

"Is there really a difference?"

"About eight hundred vertical feet and a lot more poetic justice. Yes."

I was laughing—couldn’t stop.

"I think you’re the craziest woman I’ve met tonight," I told her. "And that’s counting the ones who tried to bite me."

"EROS!"

She held my gaze for a long beat. Then reached down, retrieved my jacket from the footwell, and slid it back on. Slow. Ritualistic. Like donning new armor. Or maybe just new skin.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify