POV: CHASE
The acquisition of Pinnacle Studios had been remarkably easy. They were mid-size, struggling, perfect for Sterling Media Group's expansion into independent film. The fact that they happened to be producing a project starring Vivian Ashford was purely coincidental.
At least, that's what I'd tell anyone who asked.
I sat in my penthouse office, whiskey in hand, watching the news coverage on my laptop. TMZ had the story. So did Variety. Hollywood Reporter. Everyone was covering Vivian's public humiliation.
The photos were particularly good. Her leaving Marcus Webb's office, tears visible even from a distance. Her running from paparazzi. Her face when she realized her dream had been taken away.
I'd arranged for the paparazzi to be there. Had made sure they knew exactly when she'd be leaving Marcus's office. Had even provided them with the information about the acquisition before it was public.
Everything had gone perfectly.
So why did I feel nothing?
I should have felt satisfaction. Triumph. She'd rejected me, humiliated me, called me a nobody. This was justice. This was payback.
Instead, I felt cold. That same cold that had settled in my chest during the inheritance signing. It was stronger now. Spreading. Taking up more space.
My reflection in the window smiled at me. I wasn't smiling. Hadn't smiled all day.
The reflection's smile widened.
I turned away from the window. Focused on my laptop. Refreshed the TMZ page. More comments. More people enjoying Vivian's downfall. More people praising me for "teaching her a lesson."
My phone buzzed. Text from Ethan.
"Dude, what did you do?"
I ignored it. He'd been texting all week, trying to check in, trying to bridge whatever gap had formed between us. I didn't have time for his moral concerns.
Another text. "Buying a studio to sabotage her? That's not you, man. What's going on?"
I blocked his number.
Dominic called. I answered.
"I hear you made your first major acquisition." His voice was approving. "Pinnacle Studios. Good move. They have a decent catalog."
"Thank you."
"The press is having fun with the Vivian Ashford angle. Clever way to handle it. Make her irrelevant before she can become relevant."
"That was the idea."
"Good. Keep her under your heel. She made the mistake of rejecting you publicly. She needs to pay for that publicly." He paused. "I'm proud of you, Chase. You're thinking like a Sterling now."
He hung up. His approval should have meant something. Should have felt like validation.
It felt like nothing.
I poured more whiskey. Watched the news coverage. Vivian's Instagram had gone quiet. No posts since this morning's optimistic photo. Her comment section was a war zone.
I should have stopped. Should have put the phone down. Should have moved on to actual work.
Instead, I opened our text thread. Looked at our last exchange. Her message about NYC being lonely at the top.
I typed: "Sorry to hear about the role. LA can be tough. Better luck next time."
Read it. Too obvious. Deleted it.
Tried again: "Saw the news. That's unfortunate. Let me know if you need anything."
Even worse. Deleted it.
I put the phone down. Picked up my whiskey instead.
The cold in my chest pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something alive.
I looked at my reflection in the window again. This time I was smiling. Same cold smile as my reflection.
When had I started smiling?
My phone buzzed. News alert. Video footage had surfaced of Vivian crying, running from paparazzi. It was everywhere now. Viral. Everyone was watching her break down in real time.
I should have felt satisfaction.
I felt nothing but cold.
The cold pulsed stronger. Spread through my veins like ice water. My reflection in the window looked darker. Eyes almost black in the dim office light.
I raised my whiskey glass to the reflection.
"To revenge," I said.
My reflection raised its glass too. But its lips moved differently. Said different words.
I couldn't hear what it said. But I could read its lips.
"This is just the beginning."
The cold pulsed again. Stronger. Like approval.
Like something feeding.