Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 581: Montclairs: Elise and Theo Montclair

I let out a slow breath. The ripple hit the room like a flex: glass cracked sowhere behind , a woman laughed a little too brightly before swallowing the sound like she’d said sothing embarrassing on live TV, and the air thickened into a cocktail of sex, orchids, and very expensive desperation.

Edward Sterling still hadn’t noticed .

Didn’t matter.The room was already orbiting the man in linen and midnight blue like he’d bought naming rights to gravity.

The place looked like soone had hired a Renaissance painter, a billionaire, and a petty god, then forced them to collaborate.

The walnut-paneled rotunda scraped up three stories to a coffered ceiling full of allegorical frescoes. Comrce. Hospitality. Fortune. Basically the holy trinity of rich people excuses. A single Baccarat chandelier hung on a bronze chain thick enough to strangle a dragon, three hundred crystals throwing rainbow shrapnel across the black-and-white marble.

Velvet chairs with gilded edges curved around a mahogany dais like a polite cult gathering. Each seat had a brass plaque discreetly bragging about who owned it. Front row reserved for bidders whose tax returns required NDAs.

Center stage: a rostrum carved from burled walnut, mother-of-pearl inlaid like it wanted to be a saint. Two 8K screens behind it rotated renderings of the Celestial Grand. Infinity pool floating off the edge of the world. Glass penthouse waiting to be sinned in. Private helipad glowing gold like it charged by the second.

People began filing in, each one announcing their net worth simply by existing.

Saudi industrialist in dove-gray thobe, his wife’s abaya threaded with actual gold like she was wearing a treasury.

A London private-equity partner draped in erald silk and pearls the size of guilt.

Brazilian commodities heir in gold lamé with a slit that climbed all the way to ambition. Eyes already scouting.

Japanese real-estate chairman carved from charcoal linen and precision.

Hollywood studio head dripping champagne satin, eralds swinging from his wife’s ears like liquid currency.

Swiss pharma heir in midnight velvet, ruby cufflinks flashing like tiny warnings.

Dubai sovereign delegate in crisp white, Rolex peeking like it had its own security detail.

New York hedge-fund legend in chalk-stripe sharp enough to file taxes on.

They sat, and the air shifted — white truffle, oud, and that tallic buzz of people about to throw money at a problem until it stops being a problem.

At 11:59, the quartet hit a perfect, crystalline A. Every head snapped toward the staircase like puppets tugged by the sa string.

And then she appeared.

The auctioneer climbed the dais with the kind of effortless presence that made the room forget how to blink.

Mid-thirties. Skin poured smooth. Ink-black hair twisted low, revealing the kind of neck sculptors cry about. Scarlet silk gown, bias-cut to slither without being thirsty. Boat neckline that behaved itself but made every eye misbehave. A single cot-shaped diamond brooch pinned above her left breast like a promise. Red heels, four inches, silent enough to scare angels.

She didn’t carry notes. Of course she didn’t. Won like her carried rooms.

Her smile slid out slow and warm. The room exhaled as one organism.

"Ladies and gentlen," she said, voice smooth enough to be illegal in five countries, "welco to the sale of the Celestial Grand Hotel. I’m Valentina Moreau, and I promise to keep this moving faster than your private jets — with fewer customs officers flirting with you along the way."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, surprised and real.

She angled herself just enough for the chandelier to flirt with the diamond at her throat.

"Before we dive into numbers — and trust , they’re indecent — let thank you for showing up. You’ve flown from Riyadh, Tokyo, São Paulo, London, and probably a few tax havens your lawyers begged you not to ntion. Your collective net worth could fund a moon colony, and yet here you are, battling over a single hotel. I love this job."

Her laugh ward, smoothing across the room like she’d just seduced the acoustics.

She turned toward the wings with a motion so graceful it probably had its own PR team.

"Now, let introduce the reason we’re all here — the sellers. Miss Elise Montclair and her brother, Mr. Theo Montclair."

They entered from opposite sides of the dais like a designer ad campaign brought to life.

Elise Montclair, thirty-two, willowy in that way that makes photographers start whispering about lighting angles and destiny.

Gown ivory chiffon, sleeveless, bodice hand-embroidered with seed pearls shimring like fresh snow. Skirt fell in soft layers, slit just high enough to reveal ankle flash and diamond strap on sandal. Hair—pale gold—swept into loose chignon, tendrils framing face that could sell billion-dollar spa package before breakfast.

She smiled, tremulous, grateful. Every man in room felt sudden urge to open trust fund in her na.

Her pale-gold hair was tucked into a loose chignon, tendrils brushing her face like they were terrified to misbehave. And her smile — fragile, grateful — hit every man in the room like a sudden, unplanned 529 college fund.

Theo Montclair, thirty-five, took his place a half-step behind her, the supportive older brother with the build of soone who could bench-press family legacy. Midnight-blue tux tailored sharp, white pocket square folded with the discipline of a man who ironed emotions. Sa cornflower-blue eyes as his sister, scanning the crowd with calm pride.

Elise moved to the rostrum. Valentina gave her the mic with a playful curtsy that sohow didn’t look ridiculous on a scarlet-silk goddess.

"Thank you, Valentina — and for the record, I did clear customs in record ti, so no shade."

Light laughter pulsed through the chairs.

Her voice softened, but the hall’s acoustics carried it like a blessing.

"Thank you — all of you — for being here today."

She touched her collarbone, fingers delicate, sincere in that way rich people rarely manage without an acting coach.

"My father, Edmund Montclair, poured thirty years into Celestial Grand and it’s other sisters. Every marble slab, every custom fixture, every orchid in the atrium — he chose himself. When he passed last winter, Theo and I promised we wouldn’t let his life’s work fall to receivers or — God forbid — so developer who’d turn the rooftop into parking."

The New York hedge-fund legend snorted, the kind of laugh that cost fifteen grand in therapy later.

"We wanted it to go to soone who would love it the way he did."

She swallowed. Tiny motion. Diamond brooch rising and falling like it had feelings.

"We did not expect this."

She gestured to the room — industrialists, heiresses, empire-builders assembled like so ultra-curated Olympus.

"We did not expect you. Your presence is the greatest tribute we could have asked for. Frankly, I’m half-tempted to auction off the bidder paddles just to keep you all here."

Soft applause swept the hall, polite but warm. Soone dabbed their eyes. The Brazilian heir actually clapped like she ant it.

Theo stepped forward, resting a steady hand on his sister’s shoulder.

"Valentina will outline the terms," he said, voice deep, anchored. "But before we begin — thank you. Truly. And Elise, no auctioning paddles. We’re not that desperate."

Laughter rose, fuller this ti.

They descended the dais together. Elise’s gown whispered across the carpet. Theo guided her to their front-row seats, left of center — perfectly positioned: visibly involved, strategically hands-off.

Valentina returned to the rostrum, eyes sparkling with the kind of charisma that should be taxed.

"See? Sibling harmony. Rarer than an honest expense report."

The room laughed again — she had them eating from her palm now.

Screens behind her dissolved into the Celestial Grand logo, the C and G looping around each other like lovers caught in tasteful scandal.

"Ladies and gentlen," she said, "the opening bid for the Celestial Grand Hotel is set at six hundred million U.S. dollars. We will begin in five minutes. Please review your bidder packets, sip your Krug, and enjoy the final movent of Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte — because after this, the only thing dying will be your competition’s hopes."

The quartet lifted their bows.

The chandelier dimd slightly, flooding the space with honey-gold warmth.

The elite settled into their velvet thrones, smiling, confident, ready to fight politely over obscene amounts of money.

The air vibrated with legacy, ambition, and the delicious electric promise of bloodless war.

We hadn’t even started.