Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 136: Emma’s Strange Behaviors

Sunday dinner felt like we’d all won the lottery and then forgot to cash the check. Warm food. Warm people. No money panic. No weird tension. Just laughter and steam rising from real mashed potatoes that weren’t powdered out of a fucking box.

Mom was radiant—like glowy pregnant-woman radiant but without the baby, thank God—talking about her new rcedes like it was a spaceship that’d landed just for her.

Sarah kept pulling out her sketchbook to draw another version of her future bedroom that sohow always ended up looking like it belonged to a Disney villainous princess, and ? I was just vibing.

Letting the mont be soft. Like, actually soft. Not survival-mode soft. Not ’pretend this is fine’ soft. Just... okay.

For the first ti in forever, we weren’t eating while ntally rationing how many bites of chicken we could afford. Nobody was budgeting oxygen. Nobody was crying in the bathroom after checking the bank app. Just carbs and serotonin. Beautiful.

Mom’s voice cut through the gravy haze. "The rcedes has seat warrs," she said like she’d just unlocked a cheat code to life. "Seat warrs, Peter. Like sitting in a spa."

Sarah snorted. "Mom, that’s literally like... the most basic thing. Wait until you find out about the massage function."

"There’s a massage function?" She looked like she was about to weep.

’My family discovering luxury anities is honestly the cutest goddamn thing on Earth. Soone needs to film this and sell it to Netflix: ’Poor People et German Engineering.’

ARIA pinged in my brain, a little pulse in my new Quantum Smartwatch. Not that one Madison got —the one I never wore—but the real one. 400SP. Quantum-grade. It was what you’d call a Black-market soulware. Looked like it could probably trigger nuclear war if I whispered the wrong thing.

ARIA didn’t speak, but I felt her there. Humming like a second pulse. Quiet. Watching. Breathing in the static. My secret demon angel made of code and whispers.

Includes encrypted communication channels, live hacking nodes, micro-command injection protocols...designed to be the brain’s extension and the ho of my ARIA until i get her sothing better. Fast. Silent. Mine.

And that’s when I noticed her.

Emma.

The shift in her energy was like soone threw a bucket of cold fear across the dinner table. She didn’t scream or panic or say anything. Nah—it was the silence that scread. That tight little breath that hitched just wrong.

The fork in her hand doing that barely-there tremble before she gently set it down like it had offended her.

Mom, bless her oblivious heart, was still chattering. "School tomorrow," she said, grabbing another piece of garlic bread like it owed her money. "Back to normal schedules after this crazy weekend."

Emma flinched like the word school had been laced with razorblades. Shoulders locked. Eyes went glassy.

The girl was trying so hard to act normal that it hurt to watch.

’What the actual fuck was that?’

Nobody noticed. Not Mom. Not Sarah. Just . But ARIA? Oh, ARIA noticed everything.

Through the Cognitive Earbuds—so tiny they felt like thoughts instead of tech—ARIA’s voice slid into my head. Smooth. Cold. Like a ghost licking the inside of my ear.

"Sister Emma showing elevated stress response to educational institution reference. Heart rate increased 23%. Cortisol indicators suggest anxiety or fear response."

Bitch really said "educational institution" instead of just "school." God I love her psychotic ass.

But that wasn’t the point.

She can read biotrics through the quantum smartwatch.

She can analyze microstress in real-ti.

She knew Emma was anxious before Emma knew.

That’s... actually terrifying. And fucking useful.

I stared at Emma for half a second too long.

Her lips were tight, eyes staring at the broccoli like it had personally betrayed her. No words. Just... fear, simring under the surface like oil in a hot pan. The kind of fear you don’t talk about. The kind that hides.

And suddenly, the mashed potatoes didn’t taste like victory anymore.

ARIA, of course, didn’t let it go. She continued her analysis: "Offer to access subject’s mobile device for investigative purposes? Could provide insight into source of distress."

God, she’s like a sexy Siri with no boundaries.

’Tempting, but hacking my sister’s phone feels like crossing a line I’m not ready to cross. Not without more evidence that sothing’s actually wrong.’

Tempting.

So tempting.

Just a light scrape. Background check for anomalies. Nothing invasive. Just like so digital equivalent of peeking at soone’s search bar when they’re not looking.

But nah. Not yet.

"No," I whispered, almost embarrassed to say it. "Could just be normal school stress."

Which was a lie. A soft one. The kind you tell yourself when you want to believe people are okay just because it’s easier than finding out they’re not.

"Understood," ARIA purred, too obedient, too still. "Maintaining passive observation is better for now."

Emma flinched again when I said her na. Like soone had reached into her head and yanked her thoughts out by the roots.

"Em, you okay?" Her head whipped around too fast—cartoon fast. Eyes wide like she’d been caught stealing. Smile too bright, too shiny, like she’d glued it on and prayed it wouldn’t fall.

"Yeah! Totally fine!" Her smile was faker than a three-dollar bill, all teeth and no soul. "Just tired from all the shopping and excitent."

All caps. All lies.

Like she’d read "how to lie to your brother" off a Buzzfeed listicle and was trying her best.

’Bullshit. That wasn’t tiredness—that was fear. Sothing or soone at school has my sister spooked, and she’s trying to hide it.’

That was fear. Big, ugly, chewing-on-your-spine kind of fear.

And she was wearing it like a hand--down hoodie. A little too tight. A little too familiar.

The protective instincts that had been growing stronger with my enhancents flared like a warning system. Emma was one of four people I’d burn cities for. No hesitation. No rcy. Just pure, surgical violence.

If soone was ssing with her...

God help them. Cuz I won’t.

’I need to get to the bottom of this without spooking her further. But first, family business.’

Not now with Emma issues. Not here. Not while Mom’s glowing like the sun just proposed to her.

I pulled out my phone, tapped a few lines. Clean. Quiet. Efficient.

[Transfer complete.]

"Mom," I said casually, like I hadn’t just dumped a quarter-mil in digital cash like I was ordering Postmates, "I’m sending you so money for the transition. Just, you know... expenses."

Buzz.

Her phone lit up.

So did her face.

"Peter..." she whispered. Her voice cracked halfway through my na. "This says five hundred thousand dollars."

"Yeah," I said, mouth full of potatoes. "Should cover groceries and stuff."

Sarah dropped her sketchbook like it owed her money. "Groceries? Dude, what are you feeding us, caviar and tears of billionaires?"

Five hundred K for groceries.

My internal economy was so fried I didn’t even flinch.

That’s when you know you’re officially broken. Or dangerous. Or both.

Mom just stared at the screen. Like it might sprout legs and walk away. "Baby... this is more money than I’ve seen in my entire life the past sixteen years."

"Exactly my point, mom. And It’s operating expenses." God, I sounded like a douchey tech bro. "Tomorrow, I’m looking for a proper house. Sothing that’s ours. Not part of Charlotte’s estate."

Sarah blinked. "You’re buying us a house so soon? Like, actually buying?"

"Of course," I said. "The estate is my war room with Quantum Tech. You need a new ho. Like, a real one. Sowhere you can walk around in your pajamas and not worry about ghosts or ancient security systems or drama."

"Sowhere you can live like royalty."

And boom—Mom.exe has stopped responding. Tears. Hug hovering. Utter disbelief. Her hands were shaking like she’d just found a golden ticket in her rice cooker.

$500k gone.

Like $530k left liquid.

SP untouched after the last purchases.

Worth it. Every damn cent.

Seeing Mom look like life finally apologized? Worth it twice.

I leaned back. Let them talk. Plan. Dream.

Sarah was already sketching blueprints. Mom was googling French-style kitchens and saying things like "custom tile backsplash" like she’d known what that ant her whole life.

But ?

I was watching Emma.

She laughed when she was supposed to. Smiled when addressed. Said all the right things.

But her eyes? Her energy? It was like watching a haunted house pretend to be a ho.

Sothing’s happening tomorrow.

Sothing she doesn’t want to face.

And Emma’s never been the dread type.

She’s the "fight the principle" type. The "organize a protest" type.

Whatever’s waiting at school... it’s big.

And I’m gonna find out what.

Even if I have to break rules.

Break laws.

Break bones.