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

Chapter 754: Teaching a God Mercy

"All I want is peace. I want to dance without looking over my shoulder. I want to build a life here in this beautiful home with this safety you’ve given me. I don’t want to go back to that hell. I don’t want to think about them. I just want to be free."

Her voice broke on the last word.

And I understood.

Really understood.

I was the kind of person who paid blood with blood. Someone hurt me or mine? I ended them. Systematically. Permanently. No mercy, no forgiveness, just complete destruction.

But Lila?

Lila was a gentle soul who knew forgiveness. Who understood that sometimes survival meant letting go. Who recognized when the universe gave you an opportunity to escape and chose not to dig up old wounds that would only bleed you dry.

She was teaching me something I’d never really learned.

Forgive and forget.

I wasn’t scared of that family at all... I know ARIA only gave me a quarter of what they were capable of too but it’s not like had any right to go against her decision. Not without her...

Consent.

Not just in sex or relationships. In everything.

She was the victim here. This was her trauma, her pain, her choice. And if she said no to revenge, then the answer was no.

Even if it pained me to let Dex walk away from what he’d tried to do. Even if every instinct I had screamed to burn that family to ash. Even if I had the power to make them suffer.

It wasn’t my choice to make.

I wasn’t some servant of justice. Wasn’t Captain America out there ending every dark soul in the world. Hell, I wasn’t even a good soul myself—I’d killed people, manipulated systems, built an empire on morally grey foundations.

But I always respect this.

I will always respect my women’s choices.

Could also learn that not everything needed blood to be resolved.

Maybe Lila had something to teach a teenage god about mercy.

I stood, crossed to where she stood by the window, and pulled her into a gentle hug.

"Okay," I said quietly. "No revenge. No going after them. You want peace, you get peace. That’s the end of it."

She sagged against me, relief and gratitude pouring out in broken sobs.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for asking. Thank you for listening. Thank you for letting me choose."

We stood there for a long moment.

Then she pulled back slightly, looking up at me with something like mischief glinting through the tears.

"Though," she said, "I wouldn’t mind if you got something from them. If they came looking for trouble again, I mean. I just don’t want to start trouble."

I laughed despite everything.

Kissed her forehead. Soft. Affectionate. Nothing sexual—just comfort and promise.

"Yeah. If they come looking, they’ll find a fucking hurricane. But otherwise? We leave them in their corner, they leave us in ours."

She nodded, smiling properly now.

"Deal. Thank you so much for listening to my choice."

"No problem." I took her hand. "Now come on. I want to show you something."

I led her through the mansion, down hallways she hadn’t explored yet, to a section of the estate most people didn’t even know existed.

A door at the end of the third-floor west wing. Unmarked. Soundproofed.

I opened it.

The music sanctuary.

Lila stepped inside and froze.

The room was massive. Two stories tall with the ceiling opened up into a cathedral-like space. Acoustic panels covered the walls in geometric patterns that were both functional and beautiful—absorbing sound, optimizing acoustics, turning the entire room into a perfect audio environment.

Instruments everywhere.

A Steinway grand piano in matte black sat near the windows, positioned to catch natural light. Guitars mounted on the walls—acoustic, electric, bass, twelve-string—each one worth thousands. A full drum kit in the corner. Keyboard synthesizers. Violins, cellos, a fucking harp. Wind instruments in glass cases.

Percussion instruments from cultures around the world.

And in the center of it all: a dance floor.

Professional-grade sprung floor, the kind ballet companies used. Smooth hardwood surface that gave just enough to protect joints while providing the resistance dancers needed. The floor stretched at least forty feet in every direction, polished to a mirror shine.

One entire wall was mirrors—floor to ceiling, perfect reflection—with a ballet barre running the length of it.

The opposite wall was windows overlooking the forest, natural light flooding the space.

And at the far end, partially hidden behind acoustic panels: a recording studio.

Soundproof booth with professional-grade equipment. Mixing board that looked like it belonged in a major label studio of immortals, because excessive is my other name when I’m creating things. Microphone collection that would make audio engineers weep. Computer systems running software decades ahead of commercial options—ARIA-optimized, naturally.

Lila’s mouth was open. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow.

"What..." she managed. "What is this?"

"My sanctuary," I said. "When I’m stressed or need to relax, I come here. Meditate sometimes. Play instruments. Sing. Dance. Make music. Produce instrumentals and sounds."

I gestured around the space.

"I know how to do almost everything and playing them too. Guitar, piano, drums, production, composition. Emma comes here too—she’s been learning piano and violin. And now..."

I looked at Lila.

"Now you’re the third person who gets to use it. For your career. For your art. For whatever you need."

She walked forward slowly, reverently, like stepping into a temple.

Her hand reached out, touched the piano keys lightly. Then the barre. Then she looked at the dance floor and tears started falling again.

"This floor," she whispered. "This is... this is beyond professional-grade sprung floor. This must cost tens of thousands to install. The acoustics in here..." She spun slowly, taking it all in. "This is better than any studio I’ve ever worked in. Better than the agency’s facilities. Better than anything I’ve ever seen."

She crossed to the mirrors, pressed her palm against the glass.

"The sightlines are perfect. The space is perfect. The floor is perfect."

Then she saw the wardrobe.

I’d forgotten about that part.

One section of the room had built-in storage—drawers and hanging space specifically for dancewear. Currently empty, but designed to hold leotards, tights, shoes, costumes, everything a professional dancer would need.

"You built this," she said, voice shaking. "You built all of this."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because music and movement are art," I said simply. "And art needs space to exist. Space to grow. Space to be free."

She turned to look at me, tears streaming.

"I’ve never had space like this. Even when I was successful, even when I was performing in videos and tours, I never had my own space. It was always someone else’s studio, someone else’s rules, someone else’s control."

She walked back to me, took both my hands.

"This is mine?"

"This is yours. Shared with Emma and me, but yours to use whenever you want, however you want. You want to dance at three AM? Dance at three AM. Want to choreograph something new? The space is here. Want to teach eventually? Bring students here. This is your sanctuary now too."

She kissed me.

Not sexual. Not hungry. Just... grateful. Pure gratitude expressed through contact.

When she pulled back, she was smiling through the tears.

"Can I dance now?"

"It’s your space. You don’t need to ask."

She laughed—bright, genuine, free—and kicked off her shoes.

Walked to the center of the dance floor in bare feet. Fixed her dress and removed her sweater, hair still pulled back, no preparation.

Just a dancer finding her floor.

She took a breath. Centered herself. And began to move.

It was simple at first. Basic movements. Stretches and extensions, testing the floor, feeling how it responded to her weight.

Then she started really dancing.

And holy fuck.

She was beautiful.

Not just technically skilled—though she was, every movement precise and controlled. But beautiful in the way she moved, the way her body told stories without words. Grief and joy and freedom and hope all woven together in fluid motion.

She danced like someone who’d been caged and was finally remembering what wings felt like.

I watched from the doorway, not wanting to intrude.

Just letting her have this moment.

Her moment of reclaiming what had been stolen.

When she finally stopped—breathing hard, glowing with exertion and happiness—she looked at me with eyes that held something I recognized.

Hope.

"Thank you," she said again. "For all of this. For saving me. For bringing me here. For giving me space and choice and freedom. Thank you."

"You’re family now," I said. "This is what family does."

She nodded, wiped her eyes, and smiled.

"Then I’m the luckiest person in the world to have found this family."

Yeah. She probably was.

And watching her dance in the space I’d built, seeing her come alive again after everything she’d survived, I realized something.

I didn’t need to destroy the Dex family to win.

Sometimes winning was just giving someone the space to heal.

And that was enough.