Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs
Chapter 70: Hopes and Dreams

Chapter 70: Hopes and Dreams

I didn’t wake up to the usual soundtrack of financial desperation and instant coffee that tasted like liquid regret. No—I woke up to actual bacon sizzling and coffee that didn’t smell like it came from a gas station bathroom.

What the hell is happening?

The sound of my family laughing drifted upstairs, and for a hot second I thought I’d died and gone to some parallel universe where we weren’t broke as shit. Because my family laughing? Together? Without someone crying about bills first? That’s some Marvel multiverse bullshit right there.

I stumbled downstairs rubbing sleep out of my eyes, expecting to find out this was all some fever dream induced by too much internet porn.

But no—Mom was actually humming while she cooked, looking like she’d been body-snatched by someone who didn’t carry the weight of sixteen years of "choose between rent and food" on her shoulders.

Sarah and Emma were talking about college plans. Not "maybe if we win the lottery" college plans. Actual fucking college plans.

Jesus Christ, what did I do to these people? That felt refreshing to know they were moving on with my help.

"Morning, mijo," Mom said, turning around with this smile that hit different than her usual "I’m dead inside but trying to hide it" expression.

"Morning," I managed, grabbing a plate and loading it with eggs that weren’t scrambled from a carton that expired last month. "What’s all this?"

"I went grocery shopping this morning." Her voice had this lightness that made my chest tight. "Real grocery shopping. Without checking prices or calculating every dollar. Like you told us we could do now."

Fuck. That feels good.

The way she said it—like she was announcing she’d discovered fire or something—made me realize how deep we’d been drowning without me even knowing it. This woman had been rationing her own food so we could eat, and now she was cooking breakfast like a normal person instead of someone playing Hunger Games with the grocery budget.

"I bought name-brand cereal," Emma announced, holding up actual Frosted Flakes like it was the Hope Diamond. "Just like you said we could. And it tastes fucking incredible."

My sister is having a religious experience over cereal. Christ.

"Language," Mom said automatically, but she was laughing. Actually laughing, not that tired fake laugh she usually gave us when we tried to cheer her up.

Sarah was scrolling through her phone with an expression I’d never seen on her face—pure excitement instead of the careful hope she usually wore like armor against disappointment.

"Pete, I’m looking at that UCLA psychology program like you suggested yesterday," she said, turning her screen toward me. "I could actually apply early decision now without worrying about scholarships."

The weight hit me like getting body-slammed by The Rock while he was having a bad day. My sister was planning her future around money I’d made from supernatural sex points, and she had no idea. But seeing the hope in her eyes—real, tangible hope instead of those "maybe someday if miracles exist" dreams—made every risk worth it.

She’s looking at me like I’m some kind of hero. Fuck, the pleasure of my happy family.

"Apply to wherever you want," I said, trying to keep my voice steady instead of cracking like Connor Hayes’ voice when he gets ratio’d in the comments. "Money’s not gonna be an issue anymore."

Mom was watching me with laser-focus intensity, like she was trying to decode the matrix of how her loser son had suddenly become the family’s financial savior. She knew something fundamental had changed, but she couldn’t crack the code.

Good. Some secrets are better than the truth.

"How are your trades doing, baby?" she asked carefully, like she was afraid the answer might shatter this new reality and send us back to ramen noodles and prayer.

I pulled out my phone and checked. The markets were in weekend consolidation mode, settling into Saturday’s lower volatility like that friend who gets too drunk at parties—unpredictable but manageable if you know their patterns. My positions were sitting at $52,000 profit, down from yesterday’s $55,000 peak but still absolutely unreal money.

Volatility is like Madison—beautiful, dangerous, and capable of either making you a god or destroying your entire existence depending on whether you know how to handle her moods.

"They’re doing good, Mom," I said, closing my phone before she could see numbers that would give her a heart attack.

I could see the curiosity burning in her eyes like she was trying to telepathically hack my phone, but I wasn’t about to tell her I’d "lost" $3,000 overnight. She’d start calculating what that money could buy—groceries for two months, new clothes for the girls, fixing that concerning noise the car kept making that sounded like it was slowly dying.

Love you too, Mom, but some mysteries are better than truth bombs.

The family dynamic had shifted overnight. We were still us, but that constant undercurrent of financial stress—that background noise of "we can’t afford this" that had been the soundtrack of my entire life—was gone. Sarah and Emma were making plans instead of just surviving day to day. Mom was cooking real food instead of performing miracles with expired ingredients.

For the first time in our lives, we were talking about possibilities instead of limitations.

This is what money actually buys. Not just stuff—hope.

By 11 AM, I announced I had business to handle and needed to bounce. Mom barely looked up from the actual newspaper she was reading—not the free local ads paper that was mostly coupons and depression, but a real subscription to morning news.

"Be careful, baby," she said, pressing a kiss to my forehead that felt different now. Grateful instead of worried. "And thank you."

"For what?"

"For changing everything."

No pressure or anything.

The taxi ride to Madison’s mansion gave me time to strategize about the day ahead. Mrs. Rodriguez was probably at home right now, dealing with another Saturday of sexual frustration and unfulfilled desires while her husband finished in thirty seconds and took a nap. In a few hours, I’d be changing that situation permanently.

But first, I needed to see my girlfriend. Because even supernatural sex gods needed their morning dose of trust fund princess energy.

Maria let me in with that warm smile that made me feel like family instead of some random broke kid who was way out of his league dating the crown jewel of Lincoln High’s social hierarchy.

"She’s still in bed," Maria said with a knowing look that suggested she’d seen Madison’s weekend routine destroy lesser mortals. "Princess doesn’t like mornings, especially on weekends."

Of course she doesn’t. Rich people problems include being allergic to consciousness before noon.