Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 972

Chapter 972: The Harem Lord’s Code 2

"Ready to order?" he asked, bravely.

Genevieve didn’t look up.

"The club sandwich," she said. "Extra fries. Extra sauce."

She paused, then gestured vaguely in my direction.

"And whatever he’s having."

"I’ll have—"

"He’ll have the same," she interrupted, still studying the menu.

"He just doesn’t know it yet."

The waiter looked at me.

I shrugged, which is the international symbol for I have lost control of this situation and I’m perfectly fine with that.

He nodded and retreated.

Genevieve lowered the menu when the food arrived and picked up the sandwich — an architectural marvel of bread, meat, and questionable structural integrity that rose nearly to the height of her face.

She took a bite.

Closed her eyes.

And made a soft, satisfied sound that probably violated at least three local noise ordinances.

I leaned back in my chair, watching her with quiet admiration.

Her eyes slid shut the moment the first real bite landed, head tipping back against the chair like a woman briefly communing with a higher power made entirely of carbs and butter.

"Oh my God." She said it the way people say it in church... slightly disbelieving.

The chewing that followed had the focused determination of someone settling a long-standing personal vendetta.

"I missed this," she murmured, almost tenderly. "I missed this so much."

Across the table, I leaned back in my chair and watched with the quiet, scholarly fascination of a man observing a rare behavioral phenomenon in the wild.

"Should I give you two some privacy?"

"Shut up," she said immediately, pointing the sandwich at me like a loaded firearm. "You don’t understand."

Another bite followed— bigger— the sort of bite like the food might develop survival instincts and try to escape.

"Do you know how long it’s been since I ate bread?" she demanded through a mouthful. "Bread, Peter. With butter. Actual butter. Not whatever olive-oil spiritual cleansing ritual I’d been eating—"

Another bite.

At this point the sandwich had clearly achieved full conversational priority.

Pleasure. Choice. Every bite felt less like a meal and more like a quiet act of rebellion.

Each satisfied sound she made was a small middle finger aimed squarely at every kale smoothie, every aggressively portion-controlled dinner plate, while curating her body like she was an exhibit in a museum titled Things I Own.

"You sound as if you’ve been in prison," I said.

She stopped chewing.

I leaned forward and brushed a smear of sauce from the corner of her mouth with my thumb.

She let me.

Just those dark eyes lifting slowly to meet mine.

For a brief moment the restaurant seemed to dissolve around us. The clatter from the kitchen softened into distant noise. The music blurred into background static. Even the waiter pretending very hard not to stare at the woman wearing nothing but my jacket across from a man young enough to make the situation legally interesting seemed to fade out of existence.

It was just her eyes.

My thumb.

The smear of sauce.

And the silence stretching between us.

"Yeah," she said finally, still chewing a little as she nodded. "In a way? It was."

There was a fragile pause then —

The sandwich rose again, pointed directly at my face like a legal document being served.

"Now," she said firmly, "can you let me enjoy this?"

The sandwich moved closer, an edible threat.

"Please," she added. "You’ve already ruined my marriage tonight. You ruined my underwear. You ruined my ability to walk like a civilized human tomorrow. Let me have the sandwich. That’s all I’m asking."

I lifted both hands in full surrender.

"The sandwich is yours."

"Thank you."

"I won’t even look at it."

"Good," she said gravely. "She doesn’t like being watched."

Then she took another bite and released a deeply satisfied groan.

"Oh," she murmured lovingly to the sandwich, "we’re never breaking up."

She was talking to the sandwich.

I was about ninety percent sure she was talking to the sandwich.

Mine arrived a moment later.

For a few minutes we ate in a comfortable silence that only exists between two people who have already shared something significantly more intimate than polite conversation.

She had sauce on her chin and made absolutely no effort to correct it.

Her hair was still beautifully chaotic from earlier activities, and she hadn’t even attempted damage control.

My jacket kept slipping off one shoulder and she’d tug it back into place without looking, the movement already becoming an unconscious habit.

The faint tan line on her ring finger caught the restaurant lighting every time she reached for a fry.

She didn’t hide it. Didn’t turn her hand away.

She wore it like evidence — proof of something survived rather than something lost.

While she continued dismantling her meal with the joyful enthusiasm of a woman discovering freedom one bite at a time, I pulled out my phone and handled a few minor logistical matters.

Suite secured.

"An upgrade?" 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

"Okay," she said after another bite. "Yeah. I’ll take the hotel. But I will pay it. Because I’m not some damsel who needs rescuing," she warned. "I’m rich. I have options."

"You’re insufferable."

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