* FREEBIES - Happy 3K Subscribers * Chapter 374

The city lights shimmered across the windshield as Chiara slipped back into the car, the night air trailing behind her like a faint perfume of rain and perfume. Lucca sat behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering column, his profile sharp in the glow of the dashboard lights. His brows were furrowed, his expression a mix of restraint and quiet disapproval.

“You shouldn’t have come tonight,” he said at last, his voice low but edged with reproach.

Chiara let out a small laugh, brushing an invisible speck from her dress. “Oh, come now, Lucca. Because I came, everyone’s talking about me and Alexander.” Her tone carried both satisfaction and defiance. “No one’s even mentioning Serena anymore. My background, my family, my connection to Alexander—it’s all far more dazzling than hers.” She tilted her chin slightly, the streetlight cutting a golden edge across her cheekbone. “If Serena ends up with him, people will just think she’s some Cinderella he picked up out of pity. And Alexander—he’ll look like he’s lost all sense of taste.”

Her smile faded as she glanced down at her lap, her fingers tracing absent circles along the hem of her gown. “Besides,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I won’t let them have the chance to be together.”

Lucca didn’t reply. He studied her from the corner of his eye, his jaw tightening. He didn’t know her well—not really. But he’d seen enough. Chiara carried herself like someone who believed the world owed her its best pieces. Anything less, anything she couldn’t claim, she deemed unworthy.

When she reached over to clutch his arm, her voice turned pleading, almost childish. “Lucca, you can’t help her. Promise me.”

He pulled his arm free, his patience thinning. “Don’t push it, Chiara,” he said flatly. “This is New York, not Italy.”

She pouted, her painted lips curving into a mischievous smile. “What’s the difference? People still bow to influence here. Everyone wants something from Italy—business, prestige, our name. If I say the word, Mama and Renzo will make sure no one dares cross me.”

There it was—her confidence, her shield. The kind that came not from merit, but from the certainty of power.

Lucca’s shoulders rose and fell in a quiet sigh. The hum of the city surrounded them—the distant honk of a cab, the whisper of tires against wet pavement. He said nothing more, his silence heavier than any argument could be.

And Chiara, bathed in the soft reflection of neon light, only smiled faintly, as if she’d already won a game no one else knew they were playing.

---

The clock on the dashboard blinked 2:00 a.m. when Serena finally pulled herself together enough to drive. Her head still ached faintly, and her stomach burned from the endless hours of tension, but she couldn’t stay another night away. The road back to New York stretched long and dark before her — a ribbon of asphalt illuminated only by the narrow beams of her headlights.

At a roadside convenience store, she bought several bags of strong coffee, tearing one open right in the parking lot. The bitter scent filled the car as she gulped down the first mouthful, the liquid scalding her throat but keeping her from collapsing into exhaustion.

By 9 a.m., Serena’s car rolled to a slow stop about three hundred feet from Manhattan Villa. The elegant gates shimmered in the early sunlight, veiled by a thin morning mist. She could already feel her hands trembling from the caffeine overload. Her stomach churned violently — a hollow, twisting pain that made her bite her lip to keep from groaning.

She pressed a hand to her abdomen and took a shaky breath before calling Alexander.

His voice came through low and hoarse, as though he’d just woken up. “What is it?”

Serena opened her mouth, intending to ask how he was — if he was safe, if things had settled. She had driven through the night for him, but the moment she heard that cool, distant tone, her courage faltered.

For a brief silence, only the faint hum of static passed between them.

“If there’s nothing, I’ll hang up,” Alexander said flatly.

But he didn’t. The line stayed open. Serena could almost picture him — sitting there, phone to his ear, waiting despite himself.

She wanted to say something, anything. To ask if he’d eaten. If he’d slept. If he still thought of her. But just as she inhaled to speak, a sharp wave of pain ripped through her abdomen — so fierce it felt like needles stabbing from the inside out.

Her phone slipped slightly in her grasp as she hunched forward, trembling.

Alexander waited nearly a full minute. Then came the faint click of his tongue, and a cold, derisive exhale before he ended the call.

The line went dead.

Serena pressed her palm harder against her stomach, her knuckles whitening as nausea rose to her throat. The bitter coffee she’d downed hours earlier sloshed unpleasantly in her gut. Her vision swam. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and reached for her phone again.

Her voice was weak when she called Marilyn. “Come pick up the car… please.”

Marilyn arrived not long after, the tires crunching against the gravel. She climbed out with a bottle of stomach medicine in hand, worry written all over her face. “Ms. Morales, aren’t you going in?”

Serena looked toward the villa, its grand silhouette framed by the crisp Manhattan skyline. Only three hundred feet away. Yet, right now, it felt like miles.

She swallowed the pills Marilyn offered, the chalky taste lingering as she wiped the cold sweat from her forehead.

Marilyn, watching her from the driver’s seat, hesitated before saying carefully, “Ms. Morales… there’s talk going around. Word is Mr. Vanderbilt’s abroad with a young lady from the Reinaldi family. Seems like he… really nailed the deal this time. Everyone’s saying he’s made quite the impression.”

Serena’s lips curved — a small, brittle smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

So he’d already won.

All those sleepless nights she spent worrying, the anxious drive through the dark — none of it mattered. Alexander was always meant to win. He always did.

She leaned back against the seat, exhaling shakily as her stomach pain ebbed into a dull throb.

“Let’s go,” she murmured.

Marilyn glanced at her once more in the rearview mirror, hesitating — but Serena’s gaze was fixed out the window, toward the villa she never entered.

Without another word, Marilyn stepped on the gas, and the car pulled away — leaving the sunlit gates of Manhattan Villa shrinking quietly in the distance.

---

The rain had just stopped when Serena returned to Le Châteauesque Manor, the grand estate silent except for the soft ticking of the hall clock. As she stepped into the living room, her eyes immediately fell upon a large, snow-white creature lounging on the couch — its fur gleaming under the chandelier like fresh winter frost.

Snowball sat upright, its amber eyes half-lidded in regal indifference.

Serena smiled faintly. She still thought it was a dog. A rather large, unusual one — not realizing yet that “Snowball” was, in fact, a wolf.

“Snowball,” she called softly.

The creature raised its head slowly, gaze sharp and intelligent, studying her with quiet authority. For a brief moment, something about that cool composure — that proud tilt of the head — reminded her of Alexander.

She chuckled under her breath. Of course it does.

Turning toward Aunt Torres, who was dusting nearby, Serena asked, “What has it been eating lately?”

Aunt Torres beamed, clearly fond of the animal. “All imported beef, Miss Morales. It refuses to touch anything else. Quite the picky one, this dog.”

Serena laughed softly, the sound light but weary. “Well, it’s Alexander’s pet. I suppose it’s used to the best.”

Snowball flicked its ears, gave a short huff — almost as if in acknowledgment — then stretched, muscles rippling beneath its thick fur. It moved with the grace of a predator, every step calculated, silent, powerful.

Aunt Torres shook her head, still watching in admiration. “Honestly, I’ve never seen a dog like this. No one even knows what breed it is.”

Before Serena could answer, Snowball leapt off the couch in a single, fluid motion, landing soundlessly on the marble floor. The movement was so swift and effortless that Serena’s breath caught — it was the leap of a hunter, not a house pet.

Her hand drifted to her stomach. A dull ache throbbed there — the familiar discomfort returning. She lowered herself onto the couch, exhaling softly. “Whatever it is,” she murmured, “it’s beautiful… and far too smart for its own good.”

Snowball tilted its head, watching her quietly from a short distance. Its gaze was steady, almost protective. Serena felt strangely reassured by its presence — a warmth spreading through her chest despite the pain twisting her stomach.

After about an hour of rest, her phone buzzed.

It was the pet hospital.

“Ms. Morales,” the voice said, “Rex is ready to go home.”

Serena immediately stood, a hint of relief crossing her face. Within minutes, she was in her car, heading down the long, tree-lined driveway toward the city.

At the clinic, Rex — her golden retriever — perked up the moment he saw her. His tail wagged furiously, his paws scratching at the glass of the kennel door.

“Rex,” Serena said softly, crouching down to meet his eyes. “You scared me, you silly thing.”

She thanked the veterinarian, paid the remaining fees, and wrapped her arms around Rex’s neck. His fur was warm against her cheek, his breathing quick but steady. Whatever he’d gone through, he was alive — and that was enough.

But as soon as they stepped outside, Serena noticed a subtle change. Rex’s ears flattened. His tail, usually a blur of motion, hung stiff.

When he sniffed her coat, his entire body went rigid — the fur along his spine rising in alarm.

By the time they arrived back at Le Châteauesque Manor, Rex’s unease had only worsened.

The moment he crossed the threshold, his eyes locked on Snowball.

And froze.

The creature standing in the center of the living room was massive — nearly three times Rex’s size, its silver-white fur glinting like moonlight. Its presence radiated dominance.

Rex whimpered softly and retreated behind Serena’s legs, trembling.

Serena blinked, confused. “Rex, what’s wrong?” She crouched, stroking his head comfortingly. “You’re not scared, are you?”

Her tone was teasing. “I brought you a friend! You were getting lonely, so… surprise! How do you feel? Touched?”

Rex stood completely still, tail tucked, eyes wide.

Snowball sauntered forward — slow, deliberate — circling Rex once, twice. The faintest glint of amusement shimmered in its gaze.

For a fleeting second, Serena swore she saw disdain there — as if Snowball was thinking, You’re lucky to breathe the same air as me.

She laughed under her breath. “Well, they say pets resemble their owners. I suppose that explains it.”

Rex gave a low, nervous bark — barely audible, as if afraid that raising his voice might provoke the creature towering above him.

Serena unhooked his leash gently, expecting him to dart away as he always did. But this time, Rex stayed glued to her heel, his steps small and cautious, as though afraid the ground itself might betray him.

Snowball lay down a few feet away, resting its massive head on its paws, its golden eyes still watching them both — calm, unreadable, and faintly amused.

The manor fell into quiet. The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows dancing against the walls.

And under the soft glow of the chandeliers, Serena couldn’t help but smile.

For the first time in days, surrounded by two wildly different creatures — one trembling, one proud — she felt, oddly enough, not alone.

---

For two days straight, Rex remained the same—quiet, withdrawn, refusing to eat or play. No matter what Serena tried, the dog simply lay curled by the French doors, eyes open but distant, as if waiting for someone who wouldn’t return.

By the second evening, Serena couldn’t take it anymore. She hesitated for a long while before finally reaching for her phone. Her thumb hovered over Alexander’s contact, her pulse quickening despite herself.

She called.

The line rang several times before it disconnected. No answer.

Serena stared at the screen for a few seconds, the small icon of the missed call feeling heavier than it should have. She exhaled slowly, her chest tightening with disappointment, and then tried another number.

“Mr. Potter,” she said when Jonathan picked up, her tone calm but slightly weary, “the big dog that Alexander sent last time doesn’t get along with Rex. Could you come and take it back when you have time?”

Jonathan froze for a beat, glancing toward the office. Alexander sat behind the massive mahogany desk, his eyes on a report but his expression unreadable.

“Ms. Alvarez,” Jonathan replied carefully, “Mr. Vanderbilt is still in a meeting right now. I’ll ask him after he’s done.”

He ended the call before she could respond further.

When the silence settled again, Jonathan cleared his throat. “Mr. Vanderbilt, Ms. Alvarez wants you to take Snowball back.”

Alexander didn’t respond immediately. His gaze stayed on the document in his hand, the faint scratching of the pen the only sound in the office. The late afternoon light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, outlining his profile in cold gold.

Just as Jonathan was about to step back and leave, Alexander set the document down with deliberate calm.

“You go pick it up,” he said simply, his tone flat, detached—like the conversation had nothing to do with him.

Jonathan blinked, momentarily stunned. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. Normally, Alexander would’ve insisted on leaving Snowball at Le Châteauesque Manor—it had always been his excuse, his quiet way of keeping a connection with Serena.

But now…

Now he was sending the dog away without a second thought.

Jonathan’s gut twisted. It wasn’t just a simple order—it felt like a deliberate act of finality, as though Alexander had decided to sever whatever fragile tie remained between them.

He didn’t dare ask questions. He only nodded and stepped aside, pulling out his phone once more to call Serena back.

“I’ll come by this evening to pick up Snowball,” he said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Serena’s soft voice came through, quiet but steady.

“Okay.”

That was all. No hesitation, no small talk—just a single word that lingered in the air before the line went dead.

And just like that, the silence between them grew a little wider, a little colder.

---

Serena stayed at Le Châteauesque Manor until late afternoon, when the orange light of dusk spilled through the tall arched windows, gilding the marble floors in gold. Sure enough, by evening, Jonathan arrived as promised—his punctuality as precise as ever.

Snowball, the enormous white Samoyed that Alexander had brought into her life, was lying lazily near the garden steps. When Serena tried to loop a leash around his neck to make Jonathan’s task easier, she discovered every leash in the house was far too small for the fluffy giant.

“Mr. Potter,” Serena said apologetically, holding up a delicate leather strap that barely fit around her own wrist, “I’ll have someone run to the mall and buy a larger one.”

Jonathan gave a small nod, his expression calm but clearly resigned. He had seen all kinds of chaos serving Alexander, but wrangling a dog that outweighed most humans wasn’t one of them.

Serena sent one of the bodyguards out, and twenty minutes later, he returned, breathless, holding the largest leash the store had in stock. Still, when they tried it on, Snowball’s thick fur and massive frame made it impossible to buckle.

To make matters worse, the dog absolutely refused to listen to Jonathan. When he tried to coax him into the car, Snowball turned his head, barked once in defiance, and bounded straight into the garden, flattening a patch of freshly bloomed lilies.

“Snowball!” Serena called, her voice echoing across the courtyard.

But the dog—still not quite accustomed to his new name—only wagged his tail and trotted even farther away. The more she called, the more he pretended not to hear.

Jonathan sighed, watching the dog tear through the flowerbeds. His patience had its limits. Finally, he pulled out his phone and dialed Alexander, who was still at the office working late.

“Mr. Vanderbilt,” he said in a low voice, “Snowball isn’t… very obedient.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by Alexander’s characteristically cool reply:

“Then let him stay there.”

Jonathan blinked, lowering the phone. For a moment, he couldn’t help but chuckle softly. Of course Alexander had anticipated this. If the man could foresee which executive in the Vanderbilt Group would betray him, predicting his dog’s rebellion was child’s play.

After ending the call, Jonathan turned to Serena, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Ms. Alvarez, Mr. Vanderbilt says to leave Snowball here. He’ll manage better in familiar territory.”

Serena exhaled, defeated. Even if she wanted the dog to leave, no one could catch him anyway. Snowball had claimed the manor as his kingdom—rolling in the grass, knocking over flowerpots, and looking blissfully pleased with himself.

As Jonathan prepared to leave, Serena hesitated. She wanted to ask how Alexander was doing—whether his wounds had fully healed, whether he was eating properly—but before she could form the words, Jonathan was already turning away.

“Good evening, Ms. Alvarez,” he said politely, offering a brief nod before stepping out into the night.

She watched him go, the sound of the car engine fading down the driveway.

A soft sigh escaped her lips. Was Alexander avoiding her… or simply too busy?

In the distance, Snowball barked happily, chasing a firefly through the twilight.

---

The next morning, when Serena arrived at the office, the private detectives she had hired were already waiting in the conference room. They looked tired but smug, their cameras and laptops spread across the table.

Over the past week, they had gathered more than enough evidence—grainy night footage, restaurant meet-ups, and several incriminating clips of Anita. In more than one video, Anita’s face was unmistakable, her laughter echoing in the background beside a well-known male celebrity.

Serena took a seat, her movements calm and deliberate. “Good work,” she said with a faint smile. “The finance department will settle the remaining payment. Just hand over everything you’ve got.”

The detectives nodded, relief flashing in their eyes. She paid them generously—far more than they expected—and after the money hit their accounts, they left quickly, leaving behind a neatly labeled hard drive.

When they were gone, Serena called Marilyn into the office.

Marilyn entered, notebook in hand, her brows knit in curiosity. “Ms. Morales, what are we doing next?”

Serena leaned back in her chair, tapping the hard drive with a perfectly manicured nail. “Create a new T*****r account,” she said coolly. “One that specializes in entertainment gossip. But here’s the key—we only post real news. No fake scandals.”

Marilyn blinked. “You mean… an exposé account?”

“Exactly.” Serena’s lips curved into a calculating smile. “Start by leaking these videos—Anita with the celebrities. This new account will go viral in a day. Once it blows up, we’ll have a million followers at least. Later, if something happens to any of our actors, we can use the account to shift the narrative—divert attention by exposing someone else.”

Marilyn’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “That’s brilliant. Every major entertainment company has those shadow accounts to steer public opinion, right?”

Serena’s tone was light, almost teasing. “Of course. The ones with the most accounts control the loudest voices.”

Marilyn nodded eagerly. “I’ll handle it right away.”

Setting up the account took less than an hour. By noon, the first blurry screenshots went live. The post mentioned a “wealthy woman” involved with several high-profile male stars. Since the images included the clear face of one extremely popular actor, the post exploded almost instantly.

Within hours, it topped national trending lists. The comment sections filled with speculation and gossip, everyone trying to guess the identity of the mysterious “wealthy woman.”

At the Ruiz Star Entertainment offices, Anita stared at the screen, her face tightening. “That’s me,” she hissed. “Get the PR team in here. Now!”

Within the hour, Anita’s publicists started their counterattack—pushing new rumors to redirect suspicion. Several entertainment accounts suddenly “confirmed” that the woman in the photos wasn’t Anita at all. Instead, they named Serena Morales.

Soon, the internet was on fire.

> [No way. E.A. Corporation isn’t even that big. What could Serena have offered that celebrity to get him in bed?]

[The photo’s blurry, but you can tell that woman’s huge. Serena’s been eating good, huh?]

[Ugh, she’s disgusting. First Wes, now random stars? She’ll catch something at this rate.]

[Didn’t people say she’s also involved with Alexander Vanderbilt? My God, she’s insatiable.]

At first, some commenters suspected Anita, but the tide quickly shifted. Soon, all fingers pointed at Serena.

Marilyn’s face was pale as she scrolled through the vitriol. She spun the laptop toward Serena. “Ms. Morales, you were right—Anita’s team is framing you. Look at this. It’s spreading like wildfire.”

Serena skimmed the screen, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, cool and sharp, reflected the dancing light of the monitor. “Let it grow,” she said softly. “Wait until the rumors hit their peak—then release the full video. Make sure Anita’s face is crystal clear. Once it’s out, the internet will lose its mind. And after that, start leaking dirt on the executives from Ruiz Star Entertainment. Keep them busy for weeks.”

Her voice was calm but cutting, each word deliberate. This was no impulsive act—it was strategy.

Following her plan, Ruiz Star Entertainment would stay in the headlines for the next month. Their reputation would crumble, and before long, actors signed under their label would start questioning whether they wanted to stay.

Serena added, her gaze still fixed on the screen, “Marilyn, be ready. Anita will send someone to contact you soon, offering to buy your silence. Ask for ten million.”

Marilyn barely nodded before her phone buzzed with a new message. Her eyes widened—someone wanted to purchase the “other materials.”

“Anita’s people,” Serena murmured without looking.

Marilyn typed back quickly, quoting the figure Serena had set. Ten million.

On the other end, silence. No immediate response. They were clearly hesitating.

Across the city, in her office, Anita slammed her manicured hand against the desk. “Ten million dollars? Are they insane?” she snarled. “Ignore them. They’re bluffing. It’s probably just some wannabe paparazzi trying to make a quick profit.”

Her assistant flinched but didn’t speak.

Anita scoffed. “Everyone plays this game. Leak half a story, bait the desperate ones, make a buck. They probably don’t have anything real.”

She straightened, eyes glinting coldly. “Keep pushing the narrative that the woman is Serena. Spread that she’s been coercing male stars, handing female artists to executives for ‘opportunities.’ Once the story snowballs, E.A. Corporation’s stock will plummet.”

Her logic made sense—but she overlooked one thing. Even if the stock dropped, no one could seize E.A. Corporation from Serena. She owned too many shares.

Meanwhile, the online chaos only intensified. Serena’s name flooded social media, hashtags multiplying like wildfire. Her inbox filled with hundreds of thousands of hate messages—cruel, mocking, and relentless.

She sat in her office, phone buzzing nonstop, her expression eerily calm. The storm had begun—but she was the one who’d set the sky alight.

---

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the glass walls of Serena’s office, casting long, golden beams across her desk. By the time she arrived, the private detectives she had hired were already waiting—two men in plain suits, looking slightly weary after a week of shadowing their target.

On the coffee table before them sat a small black case. One of them opened it carefully, revealing several labeled flash drives.

“Ms. Morales,” said the older detective, sliding one of the drives across to her. “This contains all the footage we captured over the past week. You’ll see Miss Anita meeting with several men at different venues—restaurants, hotels, a film set. One of them’s a very well-known actor.”

Serena picked up the drive between two fingers, her crimson nails gleaming faintly under the light. She plugged it into her laptop, watching silently as the videos began to play.

In one clip, Anita was laughing under dim bar lights, leaning a bit too close to the celebrity beside her. In another, they were entering a hotel together at midnight. Her expression didn’t change as she watched—just a faint, knowing curve of her lips.

“Very good,” she murmured, closing the laptop. “The finance department will transfer the remaining payment. You’ve done your part.”

The detectives, visibly relieved, nodded gratefully before making their exit.

Once the door shut behind them, Serena leaned back in her chair, the faint scent of her coffee mingling with the sterile air of the office. She tapped her pen against the table, deep in thought for a moment before calling out, “Marilyn, come in.”

Her assistant appeared almost instantly, tablet in hand. “Yes, Ms. Morales?”

“Set up a new T*****r account,” Serena said calmly, eyes still on the city skyline outside.

Marilyn blinked. “A new account? For what purpose?”

Serena turned her gaze toward her, a faint, sharp smile forming. “We’re going to create a platform that posts verified entertainment gossip—real stories, not rumors. Start with Anita’s footage. Post it from the new account, but don’t mention any names. Blur her face slightly, keep the celebrity clear. Let the public do the guessing.”

Marilyn’s brow furrowed, but only for a moment before realization dawned. “Ah… you want to build influence.”

“Exactly,” Serena replied. “Once this account gains traction, we’ll have a million followers—maybe more. Later, if one of our own actors faces a scandal, we’ll have the power to shift the spotlight elsewhere. Every major entertainment company does this, Marilyn. The more accounts we control, the more we control the conversation.”

A spark of admiration lit in Marilyn’s eyes. “Understood, Ms. Morales. I’ll have the account verified and ready in an hour.”

By noon, the internet was in chaos.

A single post appeared on the newly minted gossip account—a blurred photo of a woman and a man entering a hotel late at night. The woman’s jewelry hinted at wealth, while the man’s face was unmistakable: a top-tier celebrity adored by millions.

Within minutes, the post exploded across platforms.

#WealthyWomanScandal trended at number one within the hour. Speculation ran wild. Every news site picked up the story, every forum buzzed with theories about who the mysterious woman could be.

Serena sat in her chair, scrolling through the comments with a serene expression. Across the glass, she could see Marilyn pacing with excitement as follower numbers climbed by the thousands.

Serena smiled faintly. Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.

---

When Anita saw the screenshot, her expression hardened. The faint glow from her phone reflected in her narrowed eyes as she exhaled sharply, summoning her PR team with a single clipped order. Within minutes, a flurry of messages and phone calls flew across group chats—damage control in motion.

Her solution came swiftly and ruthlessly. Within the hour, several entertainment gossip accounts began circulating the same claim: the woman in the video was Serena Morales.

The comment sections exploded like a match to gasoline.

> [No way, E.A. Corporation isn’t even that big. That male celebrity’s famous—what did Serena give him to go along with this?]

[The photo’s blurry, but you can tell she’s built like a tank. Gross.]

[She’s so desperate. Someone like that’s bound to catch an STD sooner or later.]

[Didn’t they say she’s fooling around with Alexander too? My God, doesn’t he find her disgusting?]

One by one, the voices that had originally suspected the woman might be Anita went eerily silent. The tide turned completely.

Now, all eyes were on Serena.

Marilyn scrolled through the flood of comments, her brows knitting tighter with each cruel word. She slammed her laptop shut halfway, then pushed it toward Serena across the desk.

“Ms. Morales, you were right,” she said grimly. “Anita’s got the entire internet eating out of her hand. Everyone’s pointing fingers at you.”

Serena sat poised in her chair, back straight, her face illuminated by the soft white light of the office. Her eyes, cold and sharp as glass, barely flickered. She didn’t flinch. She’d been through worse storms than this.

Her voice, when she spoke, was steady and low. “Wait until the noise reaches its peak,” she instructed. “Then drop the video. Make sure Anita’s face is crystal clear. Once that hits, the internet will devour her alive.”

Marilyn blinked, startled by the calm precision in Serena’s tone.

Serena leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the desk, her voice gaining quiet intensity. “After that, start leaking dirt on the other executives at Ruiz Star Entertainment. Space it out—keep the public hooked. Let the company’s name rot in the headlines for a month. By the time the dust settles, their reputation will be in tatters, and everyone will start asking whether their actors were involved in… other activities with those execs.”

She allowed herself the faintest smirk. “The smart ones—the high-value actors—will bail first. Once they start running, Ruiz Star Entertainment will crumble from the inside out.”

Marilyn nodded, a spark of admiration glinting in her eyes. Serena’s composure, her patience, her ability to turn public outrage into strategy—it was terrifyingly elegant.

Serena continued, “Also, be prepared. Anita’s going to reach out to you soon. She’ll try to buy you off. Start by asking for ten million.”

Marilyn opened her mouth to respond, but her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down—and froze.

A message had come in from an unknown number. The sender wanted to buy the other materials she had.

Serena didn’t need to ask who it was from.

“Quote ten million,” she said simply.

Marilyn typed it out and hit send. The typing indicator on the other end blinked, then vanished. Silence. No reply.

They were clearly taking it back to Anita.

Sure enough, across town, Anita slammed her manicured hand against her desk, the sound echoing off the glass walls of her office. “Are they insane? Ten million dollars?” she barked, eyes flashing with fury.

Her assistant hesitated. “Should we negotiate—?”

“Negotiate? Don’t be ridiculous.” Anita let out a cold laugh. “They’re bluffing. Probably just another clout-chasing paparazzi trying to cash in. If they really had something big, they’d sell it for less. This is just a scare tactic.”

Leaning back in her chair, Anita crossed her legs and sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “Push the story harder. Say that Serena’s been exploiting male celebrities and passing female stars around to curry favor with executives. Make it sound like she’s running her own little black market of fame. Let the world see how filthy she really is.”

Her PR team hesitated, but Anita’s glare silenced them.

“This will tank E.A. Corporation’s stock price,” she said, her tone coldly triumphant. “And no one will touch Serena after this.”

She didn’t add the rest out loud—because she knew it was true. No one could take over E.A. Corporation anyway. Serena held too many shares. But destroying her public image? That was personal satisfaction.

Within hours, hashtags trended across every major platform.

#SerenaMoralesScandal

#EACorporationMeltdown

#WesAndSerena

And with each refresh, Serena’s inbox filled with more bile—hundreds of thousands of hateful messages, each more vicious than the last.

Marilyn watched from across the room as Serena silently scrolled through the chaos on her phone. The faint glow of the screen reflected in her expressionless eyes.

She didn’t look angry.

She looked like someone waiting—poised, calculating, and ready for the perfect moment to strike back.