Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs
Chapter 67: Hope & First Trading Profits

Chapter 67: Hope & First Trading Profits

"What am I looking at?" Mom asked, squinting at the screen, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Those are his trades," Madison explained softly. "He’s making money in real time."

"How much money?" Sarah asked, leaning forward with curiosity.

"Ethereum is up $50,000," I said, trying to keep my voice calm but failing completely. "BNB is up $5,000. I went heavy on Ethereum because it’s got major updates coming next week—the market’s pricing in the upgrades early."

The table went completely silent. I could hear the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking on the wall, my own heartbeat in my ears.

"Fifty thousand dollars?" Mom said slowly, like she was testing whether the words were real. "In one day?"

"More like three hours," I corrected, watching her face go pale.

"Peter," Emma said, staring at my phone like it was displaying alien technology, "that’s more than Mom makes in a year."

The weight of that statement settled over the table like a heavy blanket. Mom made $45,000 a year killing herself with double shifts, and I’d just made more than that in three hours sitting in my bedroom.

"Wait," Mom said, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. "Where did you get the money to invest in the first place?"

Madison and I locked eyes. That look you share when you both know the lie you built is about to get grilled.

"I’ve been freelancing," I said. Smooth. Deadpan. Like tossing a dollar store tarp over a volcano. "Coding gigs. Websites. Saved up."

"How much did you save?" Sarah asked like a detective who’d smelled something off ten minutes ago and finally had the warrant.

"Enough to get started," I deflected, sipping water like it could drown the tension.

"Peter," Mom said—and this time, it wasn’t gentle. It was her real voice. The one she saves for when she’s terrified. "How much money are we talking about here?"

Deep breath. No way around it now.

"I started with $300,000."

Boom.

The silence that followed? It wasn’t awkward. It was nuclear.

Madison froze that I gave the accurate number. Sarah’s jaw dropped. Emma’s eyebrows vanished into her hairline. And Mom—

"Three hundred thousand dollars?" she whispered like each syllable cost her something.

"Yeah."

Her chair screeched back as she stood, like even it couldn’t handle this plot twist.

"Peter Carter. Where the hell did you get three hundred thousand dollars?"

She was shaking—arms, voice, soul. Not from rage. From fear. That deep, old fear—the kind that follows people who’ve lost everything before and just started trusting the floor beneath them again.

"Mom, I swear—"

"No teenager makes that kind of money building websites!" she barked, voice splintering. "Are you dealing drugs? Did you steal it? Are you in some kind of gang? Tell me the truth, now!"

"Mrs. Carter," Madison stepped in, trying to defuse the bomb, "I can explain—"

"Madison, no, stay out of this," Mom said, eyes flaring for a second before softening. "But—Peter, please..."

Her eyes were glass now. Not anger. Not disappointment.

Fear.

Real, raw, stomach-punch fear.

"Mom," I said gently, reaching across the broken silence, "it’s not illegal. I promise. I’ve been working on something for months—crypto-based. It finally paid off."

"What kind of crypto project?" she asked, her hand shaking in mine. Her voice barely holding on.

And that’s the question, isn’t it?

What kind of project turns a broke sixteen-year-old into a ghost millionaire overnight?

I didn’t answer her yet.

Because the truth?

The truth would nuke the dinner table.

And everything that came after.

I scrambled fast, like I hadn’t rehearsed it a thousand times in my head. "I created some trading algorithms," I said, heart hammering. "They run automatically, make money while I sleep. Crypto markets never close—so, 24/7 grind, constant openings."

Emma blinked. "That’s... possible?"

"Completely," I said, leaning into the lie like it was gospel. "It’s called algo trading. Rich people love that stuff. The smart ones rake in millions without lifting a finger."

Mom didn’t respond. She just stared at me. That locked-on, mom-level stare that cuts through bullshit like it’s her superpower. My stomach twisted, not from guilt—no, that ship sailed—but from the sheer suspense of whether she was gonna buy it or crack it all open.

"And it’s legal?" she asked, voice low like she didn’t trust her own breath.

I leaned in, real calm, all charm and innocence. "Totally legal. I can show you all the docs if you want. Tax filings, trades, whatever you need."

She sank in her seat, like gravity had yanked the strength out of her. Her eyes flicked to the screen—blue holograms still glowing faintly above the table. The profits were right there, floating in cold hard numbers.

Numbers don’t lie. Or at least, she thought they didn’t.

"Peter..." she whispered, voice breaking. "This is life-changing money."

I nodded, finally letting the mask slip just enough to crack my voice. "Yeah, Mom. That’s why I needed to tell you."

"What are you gonna do with it?"

There it was—the opening I’d been praying for. This was the pivot. The scene-changer.

"First, keep growing it. Stick to weekdays—weekend trading’s a gamble, and I’m not trying to lose momentum. But after that..." I looked around the table—Emma blinking like she was in a wet dream, Sarah too stunned to speak, Mom looking like she might faint. "I’m gonna buy us a real house."

Her face just crumbled.

No fancy dramatics—just raw, human collapse. Years of struggle, stress, skipped meals, and late-night prayers all came crashing out of her in the form of these heavy, body-wrecking sobs. Not the gentle tear-down-the-cheek type. The kind that rattle bones.

"Peter..." she managed.

"A house where the faucet doesn’t leak," I said, voice shaking. "Where the fridge doesn’t sound like it’s choking to death. Where you don’t work yourself into the ground for rent. Where Sarah and Emma get their own rooms."

She reached across the table and grabbed both my hands.

"Son..." she whispered. Her hands found mine. Callused. Cracked. The hands that built our survival out of scraps, but they gripped me like I was the only stable thing in her world.. She held me like I was the only stable thing in the room.

Emma and Sarah were crying now too. Silent. Shocked. Like the dream finally knocked on the door and they didn’t know how to open it.

"You’ve sacrificed everything," I said, locking eyes with Mom. "Skipped meals, wore the same damn shoes for three years. It’s my turn now."

She didn’t say anything at first. Just cried harder, and then—

"I’m so proud of you," she said, voice shaking. "So fucking proud."

Mom never swore.

And yet here we were.h

"This is just the beginning," I said. "By Christmas, we’re living like people again. No more survival mode. No more pretending we’re okay. We’re done with that Chapter."

Madison was dead silent beside me, just watching. Taking it in. This kind of love? This kind of raw, ugly, beautiful breakdown of everything you’ve carried for too long? This was new to her. Probably hit her harder than the money.

Mom turned to her, eyes rimmed red. "Thank you for standing by him. For believing in him when no one else did."

Madison nodded, her voice cracked and barely there. "He’s going to change the world. I’m just lucky to watch it happen."

No one touched their food after that. Everyone just kept circling back to the money, to the possibilities. It was like hope had walked in, kicked despair out of its chair, and parked itself right at the table.

"So what happens tomorrow?" Emma asked, wiping her eyes.

"Tomorrow?" I looked at Madison, and something in my smile must’ve said it all. "We start building the empire."

The weight of that hit me hard. I’d promised them a new life. A future. I couldn’t mess this up.

"You ready for the show?" Madison whispered, her fingers finding mine under the table.

"Always," I said, giving her hand a squeeze.

As we cleared the plates and wrapped up dinner, I caught Mom watching me with a look I’d never seen before. Not just love. Not just pride.

Hope.

And I swore right there—whatever it took, whatever I had to burn down or build up—I was going to make sure that hope never died.

As dinner wrapped up, I caught Mom looking at me again. Different this time. Not just with love or pride—but something bigger.

Hope.

The kind that felt real. Dangerous, even.

And I’d be damned if I let that look fade.

I was going to burn the fucking world down before I let it die.