Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 96: Sunday Reset – Family, Roast, and Secrets

Physical exhaustion is a bitch, sure—but ntal exhaustion? That’s an entirely different animal. It doesn’t just creep in; it drags you down by the spine and chews on your neurons like bubblegum.

By 8 AM, I was face-first in my keyboard, brain feeling like it had been spun in a Vitamix set to "obliterate."

The last thing I rember was thinking about neural networks. The next? Darkness. Sweet, dreamless oblivion.

Three hours later, I ca back online—still in a hoodie I had put on, eyes crusty, back sore, and brain... surprisingly sharp. Like I’d rebooted instead of rested. System Refresh: Complete. Sunday had arrived in full color.

I could already hear the sounds of weekend life drifting up from downstairs—pots clinking, soone yelling about laundry, and the distinct hum of a vacuum cleaner being weaponized.

It was ti to pretend I hadn’t just made more money overnight than Mom had in the last six months combined.

I stumbled down the stairs looking like I’d just survived a small explosion, and instantly, every face in the living room turned toward with that chaotic blend of mockery and maternal concern only blood relatives could pull off.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Sarah declared, raising both arms like she was presenting a Broadway act. "The cave gremlin erges! Sobody get a cara."

Emma didn’t even glance away from her phone. Just smirked. "I thought you’d fused with your laptop. Like, Matrix-style. One more hour and we were gonna call the Geek Squad to detach you."

Sarah snorted. "No, for real. He looked dead. Like vampire-in-a-coffin dead. We should’ve checked for garlic."

Mom was curled in her usual Sunday spot—coffee in hand, house robe on, and that face. You know the one. The Mom Face. That unique blend of relief, suspicion, and an unspoken promise that I was about to get lovingly roasted to hell and back.

"Peter, honey," she started sweetly, which was always the warning shot. "I found you passed out at your desk this morning. Face-down on the keyboard. You didn’t even twitch when I poked you. So... I took a picture."

Oh, hell no.

"You didn’t," I said, voice cracking like I was twelve again.

"I did," she replied, smiling with way too much satisfaction. "And I sent it to both girls. You looked so peaceful. ’QWERTY’ was printed across your cheek like a stamp."

Sarah had already pulled out her phone, showing it to Emma like she was auctioning off my soul. "New lock screen. Look how angelic he looks. It’s giving Sleeping Beauty, but make it tragic."

"You people are monsters," I said, grinning despite myself. "Legit, certified monsters. There should be laws."

Emma gave a lazy thumbs-up. "Welco to the family, where privacy goes to die."

And yeah—this was the chaos. This was the noise. This dumb, loud, beautiful ss that kept anchored to sothing real.

While I was out there building AI prototype for suicidal billionaires and taking missions from an all-knowing system, this was why I didn’t completely lose my mind. These were my people. Unapologetically annoying. Unrelentingly loyal.

"So," Emma added, tilting her head in mock curiosity, "just out of curiosity—what exactly were you doing that had you drooling on your keyboard like you got tased mid-keystroke?"

"Oh, here we go," I muttered.

Sarah leaned in, shark grin engaged. "Yeah, Pete. Don’t say ’coding.’ That’s not gonna cut it anymore. You looked like you fought a war in your sleep."

If only they knew.

If only they had the faintest clue that while they were watching Netflix, I was entering the kind of territory that could get labeled a tech god or get killed in a boardroom elevator. That last night, I accepted a mission to save a suicidal CEO, stop a hostile corporate takeover, and potentially take over a billion-dollar company without ever being seen.

And I couldn’t tell them.

So, I gave them the only truth they’d believe.

"I was coding," I said, deadpan.

Sarah groaned. "La."

Emma rolled her eyes. "You impossible proud nerd."

Mom just smiled again—this ti softer. Like maybe, just maybe, she saw the exhaustion under my jokes.

"Just don’t burn yourself out, honey," she said. "Whatever it is you’re doing, it’ll still be there after a nap."

If she only knew.

It won’t.

Not if I’m right about what’s coming.

"Just working on so projects," I said, trying to sound laid-back, like I hadn’t just pulled an all-nighter moving markets in my pajamas.

Sarah let out a theatrical gasp. "Oh God, he is a tech and trading mogul. He’s gonna pull out stock charts and say things like ’market sentint’ and ’price action.’"

Emma didn’t even look up. "I bet he made another crypto fortune while we were watching Real Housewives of Screaming Banshees."

Mom gave the look—half worry, half judgnt. "Peter, you’re sixteen. You should be sleeping in, playing video gas, complaining about algebra... not collapsing on your keyboard like so kind of sleep-deprived CEO."

I smiled, kissed her on the cheek. "I’m fine, Mom. Just got a little carried away with sothing interesting."

She didn’t buy it. But the living room was warm, the TV was blasting so trashy reality show about won throwing wine glasses over a cheating boyfriend, and the scent of waffles was in the air.

It was normal. Comforting. This was what I was fighting for—what all this secret shit was about.

"The richest man isn’t the one who has the most, but the one who needs the least." So ancient philosopher said that. Clearly, the guy never had a family who roasted him with this much affection.

But I couldn’t stay in the mont. Not yet. Not with my phone vibrating like a jackpot machine in my hoodie pocket.

Before I’d faceplanted at my desk, I’d pulled the trigger on what I believed was the trade of my life. A set of positions so precise, so surgical, they should’ve co with a soundtrack.

I opened my phone. Held my breath.

First, the Friday plays:

Ethereum: 30 lots, caught the breakout, locked in $89K.

BNB: 25 lots, rode the exchange token surge for $67.5K.

That spicy altcoin: 50 lots, tid the weekend pump like a fortune teller—$42.6K.

Total from those? $199,100. Already baller.

But the Bitcoin move?

That was art.

I knew a major corporation was going to announce their Bitcoin reserves Sunday morning. So while the world slept off Saturday night, I slipped in with 50 lots and waited.

6:47 AM. Boom. Announcent hits. Bitcoin launches into the stratosphere. Most traders would’ve chased the green candles like idiots.

Not .

I let them celebrate for exactly 17 minutes, then dumped the whole position as smart money started cashing out. A glorious collapse followed. I surfed the tsunami on a golden board.

$230,200. Clean. Crisp. Ruthless.

I stared at the total balance: $729,300.

I blinked. Twice. My brain, for all its enhancents, hesitated—like it couldn’t quite process what was happening.

Less than a few days ago, I was rationing lunch money. Now? I could buy a Tesla in cash and still have change for a penthouse.

It didn’t even feel real. The numbers on the screen looked fake, like soone had Photoshopped an extra digit just to ss with .

And yet, here I was. Calm. Composed. Not even sweating.

Apparently, supernatural upgrades co with emotional auto-stabilizers. I felt the surge of triumph, the edge of disbelief, but it was all... buffered. Like watching a movie of my own life in high definition.

"Fortune favors the bold," I muttered, grinning. "But it worships the prepared."

I turned to Mom.

"Hey, Mom," I said, trying to sound normal even though my entire world had just shifted on its axis. "I need to show you sothing."

She looked up, suspicious. That universal mom face—part pride, part what the hell did you do now.

"What kind of sothing?" she asked slowly. "Because if you’re about to tell you’ve been gambling online, Peter Carter, just because I gave you a go ahead to trading, I swear to God—"