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

Chapter 834: The Immortal Maiden

The restaurant reeked of old money and the kind of quiet power that could buy small countries and still complain about the service.

Michelin stars weren’t awards here—they were the atmosphere, invisible crowns dangling over every table like judgmental ghosts. Crystal chandeliers bled soft golden light onto linens so expensive they probably had trust funds.

Waiters ghosted between patrons in tailored black—there when you snapped your fingers, gone before you could say "thank you," because gratitude was for peasants.

Senithe claimed the corner booth, back to the wall—pure habit, the kind that keeps you alive when your job description includes occasional gods assassination.

Dark Regent sprawled opposite, long fingers wrapped around a whiskey he hadn’t touched in thirty minutes. Their conversation was surgical: clipped, low, the sort of plotting that redrew borders and drained offshore accounts without anyone raising their voice above a bored whisper.

Then the front doors exploded inward.

Not literally. But the sheer chaos might as well have been C4 wrapped in glitter.

Skip-skip-skip-skip-skip.

Every single head in the room whipped around like they’d been collectively bitch-slapped.

A blue-pink hurricane bounced through the entrance like gravity had DM’d her "u up?" and she’d replied with "nah, I’m good." She didn’t walk.

She skipped—each bounce hurling her a full foot off the floor, twin ponytails flailing like deranged cheerleader pom-poms at a riot.

Those double side-ponytails were a felony.

Stacked cartoonishly high, secured with fluffy ribbons the color of diabetic cotton candy. And the hair itself? Electric glacier blue—not "box-dye disaster" blue, but I mugged a frozen thunderbolt and kept the color blue.

It caught the chandelier light and shimmered like it was personally offended by dimness.

Her eyes were the same: huge, sparkling, radiating the exact flavor of mischief that gets lesser mortals restraining orders in three jurisdictions.

She was tiny. 5’2" if she cheated with tiptoes and prayers. The kind of petite that screamed "I got carded buying baby food" but strutted like she’d personally trademarked audacity.

A comically oversized cherry-red lollipop protruded from glossy pink lips. She sucked it shamelessly—pop pop pop—yanking it out for a slow, pornographic lick before slamming it back in with a happy little hum.

Outfit? A direct war crime against the dress code and good taste.

Daisy Dukes so short they were basically denim panties with self-esteem issues. Cropped top ending just under perky small tits, flashing abs that clearly did planks when nobody was looking—buried under layers of weaponized uwu.

A long black leather jacket hung off her shoulders like a cape she was too lazy to actually wear—just vibing there because aesthetic.

"BOSS!"

The yell detonated like a flashbang in a library.

Crystal shivered. Waiters froze mid-stride like someone hit pause. One sommelier clutched his ’82 Bordeaux like it was about to testify against him. Three separate hush-hush power deals flatlined in unison.

"BOSS! BOOOOOOSS! I FINALLY FOUND YOU!"

She skipped—skipped—straight for their table, ponytails bouncing like excited seizure warnings, jacket flapping, lollipop clicking against her teeth in chaotic Morse code.

Every patron stared.

Nobody complained.

She was too fucking cute. Aggressively, illegally, disarmingly cute. The cute that neutralizes rage before it can chamber a bullet. CEOs who’d bankrupt orphans for fun caught themselves fighting smiles. Ice-queen heiresses felt sudden, shameful urges to boop her nose and immediately hate themselves for it.

She was a walking Geneva Convention violation dipped in ribbons and bubblegum.

Dark Regent’s palm met his face with the weary slap of a man who’d survived this circus so many times he had frequent-flyer miles in hell.

Senithe just sighed.

It was a biblical sigh—the sigh of someone who’d watched this exact train wreck in 4K a thousand times, knew the body count, and still couldn’t look away.

"Maiden." Dark Regent’s voice emerged muffled through spread fingers. "When. Are. You. Ever. Going. To. Grow. Up."

It wasn’t a question. Questions imply hope. This was a prayer for mercy that had already been denied.

Maiden launched herself onto the booth beside Senithe—not sat, launched—tiny body crashing in like a glitter grenade. Before Senithe could react, both arms had latched on like a caffeinated koala with abandonment issues.

"BIG SIS!"

Senithe’s eye twitched. A forehead vein popped like it was auditioning for a horror movie.

"Big sis, big sis, big sis! I missed you SOOOOO much! How’s the boss? Did you miss me? You missed me, right? I can tell! The others are the WORST without you—always training, always scheming, nobody wants to play games or binge anime or—"

"Get. Off."

Senithe’s voice could have flash-frozen the ninth circle of hell.

She pried Maiden loose with the smooth, exhausted precision of someone who’d performed this exorcism ten thousand times. Maiden released but stayed glued to her side, lower lip pooching in the most dramatic pout this side of convention hell.

"You’re so mean, big sis..."

"Report. Now."

"Ugh, you’re SUCH a killjoy!" Maiden flopped against the booth like a dramatic starfish, lollipop drooping like it was mourning its own existence. "Always business business business! Don’t you ever wanna have fun? We could go shopping! Or get ice cream! Oh oh oh—there’s this new place with rainbow sprinkles that are literally enchanted—probably cursed, but in a cute way—"

"Maiden."

The word cracked like a gunshot in church.

The table went graveyard silent.

Even the chandelier seemed to dim a little, like it was holding its breath and praying nobody died today.

Maiden’s entire demeanor flickered.

Just for a heartbeat.

The bouncing, giggling, sugar-rush disaster of a girl vanished. Something colder, sharper slid beneath the surface—like a shark fin slicing through a kiddie pool full of floaties.

Her bright blue eyes—still sparkling—suddenly held depths that had nothing to do with ribbons, lollipops, or cartoon physics. Depths that remembered. Watched. Counted. Depths that had probably tallied bodies while humming nursery rhymes.

Then the mask snapped back like cheap elastic.

She hunched her shoulders, ducked her head, and became the scolded child again—fidgeting with the lollipop stick, twirling it between tiny fingers like it was the only thing keeping her from exploding.

"...yes, boss," she mumbled, voice small and contrite. The tone that would fool anyone who hadn’t just watched her skip through a five-star restaurant like a glitter-coated demolition crew.

Dark Regent finally lowered his hand from his face. His gaze locked onto her like a targeting laser acquiring a very small, very annoying heat signature.

"Peter Carter isn’t in Lincoln Heights anymore," Maiden continued, words tumbling faster now but still hushed. "He went to the cliff. The ghost mansion. The place that doesn’t exist on satellites, databases, Google Maps, property tax records, or even Zillow’s ’weird shit’ filter. He took people with him. The girlfriend. The Korean assassin lady. And..."

She paused. Gave the lollipop a slow, thoughtful lick—long enough to make it look almost meditative. A flicker of something—uncertainty? unease? actual concern?—crossed her face.