Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 694 Returning Home

Trent Holloway was already in prison. Had been for weeks, ever since I dismantled his life for what he did to Emma—while I was blissfully unaware my sister was drowning ten feet from shore.

But prison?

Prison was just the trailer.

I was here for the full feature.

I hold grudges the way responsible adults hold investnt portfolios—long-term, diversified, and designed to compound aggressively over ti.

And prisons, like the outside world, obeyed one sacred principle: money talks louder than morality. Pay the right people, and suddenly the system becos… flexible.

For example: pay the warden enough, and Trent's life could be transford into a legally ambiguous nightmare.

Privileges misplaced. als forgotten. Transfers mishandled. Cell assignnts re-evaluated with an eye toward inmates who viewed sex offenders as stress balls. Guards who developed acute, selective blindness in corners without caras.

The Arican justice system: theoretically broken for everyone, but spectacularly broken if you antagonize soone with cash and a vindictive streak.

One hundred thousand dollars was all it took to convince Warden Blackwell to ensure Trent's incarceration was as educational as possible. Maybe a little beyond policy. Possibly past humane. Comfortably wedged between justice and cruelty, where accountability likes to nap.

Yes, I spent that much money.

No, I don't regret it.

Trent needed to understand sothing fundantal: prison wasn't the punishnt. It was the venue. The punishnt was waking up every day knowing there was no relief coming—no allies, no rcy, no reset button.

Was it healthy? Absolutely not.

Was it satisfying? Imnsely.

Did it make a bad person? Probably.

Did I care? Not even remotely.

Who would? His own family barely tried.

His mother showed up once—cried on cue, fed the caras a tasteful serving of grief, then vanished like she'd fulfilled a contractual obligation.

His father hired a mid-tier lawyer, advised a guilty plea, and treated his son like a bad stock position—cut losses, move on, don't look back.

No visits. No letters. No care packages. No we still love you platitudes.

Even his family knew he was trash. They just preferred not to be the ones taking it out.

He was alone.

And I intended to make sure he felt every second of it.

"Funds transferred," ARIA said, her tone carrying a hint of satisfaction that really should've prompted introspection. "Warden Blackwell will receive instructions shortly. Trent Holloway's prison experience is about to deteriorate significantly."

Good.

One down.

Then there was Jack Morrison.

Ti to shut him down.

Jack didn't co with the convenient courtesy of prosecutable bruises. His damage was quieter. Psychological. Emotional. The kind of abuse that never leaves fingerprints but permanently rearranges soone's internal wiring.

No punches. No broken bones. Just manipulation. Gaslighting. Public humiliation dressed up as "jokes." The slow erosion of reality until the victim stops trusting her own mory, her own worth, her own right to exist without apology.

Courts hate that kind of abuse. Too intangible. Too ssy. Too inconvenient.

Victims, unfortunately, never forget it. It sets in the bones. Outlives scars.

Because Jack hadn't invented himself. He'd inherited the blueprint.

He'd learned from his father that won were props—accessories in the performance of masculinity. Things to collect, belittle, discard. He learned that "no" was just background noise if your last na carried enough weight. That power and money didn't just buy comfort—they bought permission.

Jack Morrison thought he was untouchable.

He was wrong.

We had enough to destroy everything that mattered to him.

Football first.

Recordings of academic cheating delivered with the bored confidence of soone who'd never faced consequences. Performance-enhancing drugs turning his highlight reels into elaborate fraud. Papers written by other students while he collected scholarships ant for people who actually worked.

Then college prospects.

Party footage—cocaine treated like a vitamin supplent. Sexual harassnt served casually, like it was a personality quirk. Girls humiliated publicly because he knew his family's na worked like diplomatic immunity.

Then reputation.

The slow, thodical exposure of how he dismantled Sofia piece by piece. The manipulation. The cruelty. The way he broke her down and acted shocked when she didn't bounce back grateful.

None of it quite enough for jail. Not with his family's lawyers, not with evidence that could be "misplaced" or recontextualized into ambiguity.

But more than enough to make him radioactive.

Enough that recruiters would quietly stop calling. That scholarship committees would regretfully move in another direction. That employers would Google his na, pause, and decide there were safer investnts.

I wasn't sending him to prison.

I was sending him nowhere.

And yes—I was cruel.

Crueler than I'd ever thought myself capable of being before the system peeled back the parts of that still believed rcy was mandatory. Turns out godhood cos with a software update: vengeance unlocked, empathy optional.

Give a bullied nerd supernatural power and a god complex, and he doesn't beco noble.

He becos efficient.

But here's the thing—I never touched the innocent. Never. Only threats. Only predators. Only people who showed exactly who they were and then seed confused when I believed them.

Jack Morrison had proven it.

Trent Holloway had proven it.

Dex had proven it.

And now?

They were all about to learn the sa lesson.

Consequences don't always wear handcuffs.

Sotis they just make sure you never get invited into the room again.

"Evidence packages compiled," ARIA reported, efficient as a guillotine. "Ready for distribution to college athletic departnts, scholarship committees, and local dia on your command."

"Hold," I said, letting the anticipation sit on my tongue like expensive wine. "We'll ti it properly. Right before his college signing day."

Because if I was going to ruin soone's life, I wasn't doing it sloppily. I was doing it professionally. I wanted spectacle. I wanted precision. I wanted him to rember the exact second his future disintegrated—pen in hand, caras flashing, dreams crystallized just long enough to be pulverized.

Style mattered. Timing mattered. Pain aged better when it was served cold and public.

"Noted," ARIA replied. "Execution scheduled for maximum impact."

The gate slid open as I approached, sensors recognizing the Hunter's signature like the house itself knew its monster was coming ho. I rolled into the driveway, the mansion rising ahead of —warm lights in every window, the kind of place that radiated family without trying. Safety. Love.

All the things that made feel like a trespasser despite owning the deed.

As I parked, my body shifted.

Eros receded—lting away like frost under sunlight. Peter Carter surfaced from beneath the godhood, the way you peel off a costu that's started to fuse with your skin.

Power drained.The supernatural thinned.The teenager ca back.

The boy beneath the beast.

I stepped out, removed my helt, placed it carefully on the seat—slow, deliberate, the ritual of soone avoiding thought. Ran a hand through my hair. No longer perfect. No longer sculpted by divine genetics.

Just ssy.

Human.

I breathed in.

LA at night—smog and jasmine, ocean salt and asphalt, corruption and beauty braided so tightly you couldn't pull them apart without tearing sothing vital. Pollution and flowers and possibility.

LA slled like ho.

Before I could take another step—

The front door exploded open.

Mom ca down the steps like a missile wrapped in maternal panic, still in her scrubs—blue fabric creased from a long shift, stains that might've been coffee or might've been soone else's worst day, na tag crooked because she'd been moving too fast to care.

"PETER!"

She hit like a freight train made of love, fear, and relief sharp enough to bruise. I caught her—of course I did—lifting her clean off the ground, spinning as her arms crushed my ribs with strength she should not have possessed.

She sobbed into , whole body shaking like grief and joy were fighting for dominance.

Her face buried in my neck. Tears soaking my collar. Fingers clutching my shirt like I might vanish if she loosened her grip, like I was smoke she had to hold onto.

"I've got you, Mom," I murmured into her hair—that familiar mix of shampoo, disinfectant, and ho. "I'm here. I'm safe. I'm ho."

And for one mont—just one—

I wasn't Eros. Wasn't the Dark Lord. Wasn't a demigod with a system, a harem, and a body count that accrued interest.

I was just Peter.

Linda Carter's son.

Ho after a long day of playing god and failing spectacularly at being human.

And sohow—against all logic—that was enough.

For now.

Until the next crisis. Until the next woman who needed saving. Until the next mission that required to beco sothing harder, sharper, less forgivable.

But for this mont—with her arms around , her tears warm against my skin—

I was ho.

And maybe that was the only kind of salvation I was ever going to get.

That would have to be enough.