CHASE
The acquisition took three days. Forty-eight hours to identify which studio owned the Netflix pilot, another day to make an offer they couldn't refuse. Sterling Industries doesn't do gradual. We do inevitable.
I sign the final documents in my office, sixty-second floor, Manhattan spread beneath me like a conquered kingdom. My assistant hovers by the door.
"The studio head is asking about operational changes, Mr. Sterling. Should I schedule a call?"
"No changes." I don't look up from the paperwork. "Tell him to proceed with business as usual. Except for casting on the lawyer pilot. That decision goes through me personally."
"Understood, sir."
She leaves. The door clicks shut with a finality that satisfies something cold in my chest.
Vivian Ashford thinks she's building something. Thinks she can sign with Marcus Webb, book a Netflix lead, and forget I exist.
She's wrong.
My phone buzzes. Text from my publicist: TMZ is asking about the Paramount acquisition. Want me to confirm?
Me: No comment on business decisions.
Another buzz. This one from an unknown number, but I know the source. Mother has many phones, many ways of staying invisible.
You're learning. Good. Let the rage guide you.
I delete the message without responding. Haven't spoken to Helena in six years. Not about to start now.
But the migraine that's been my constant companion since the inheritance throbs in agreement. The cold that lives in my bones pulses warmer, like approval.
I pour myself scotch from the crystal decanter. Eighteen-year-old single malt. Dominic's favorite. The irony isn't lost on me.
My laptop pings with a calendar alert: Vivian's audition. Today. 2 PM Pacific time. Right about now.
I pull up the studio's internal system. One of the benefits of ownership: access to everything. I watch the schedule populate on screen. Vivian Ashford, 2:15 PM slot. Lead role: ambitious lawyer fighting corporate corruption.
How fitting.
The cursor hovers over her name. One click to cancel. One email to the casting director: "Not her. Anyone but her."
But that would be too obvious. Too traceable.
I open my contacts instead, find the studio head's number. He answers on the first ring.
"Mr. Sterling. How can I help you?"
"The Netflix pilot. The lawyer drama."
"Yes, sir. We're very excited about it. Strong scripts, excellent director—"
"The lead role. I want someone with experience. Someone who's proven themselves. Not some fresh-faced nobody trying to break in."
Silence on the other end. Then, carefully: "We had someone promising scheduled today. Vivian Ashford. She's new, but her screen test was—"
"I don't care about her screen test. I care about the show succeeding. Get someone with credits. Someone bankable."
"Of course, Mr. Sterling. I'll handle it immediately."
"Good."
I hang up.
The scotch tastes like victory.
Hours pass. I take meetings, review quarterly projections, fire an executive who thought seniority meant immunity. The curse hums beneath my skin, feeding on each calculated move.
At 6 PM, my phone lights up with notifications. Twitter, Instagram, entertainment blogs. All covering the same story.
I click the first link.
"Rising Star Vivian Ashford Snubbed at Major Audition"
The photo accompanying the article stops me cold. Vivian, outside a studio building, hand partially covering her face. Her eyes are red, mascara smudged. Paparazzi crowd around her, cameras flashing, capturing every angle of her devastation.
Sources say Ashford was promised the lead role in Netflix's upcoming legal drama, only to be told at the last minute the part went to a more established actress. Witnesses describe Ashford leaving the audition in tears, clearly blindsided by the decision.
I zoom in on the photo. Her expression is raw, unguarded. The kind of pain you can't fake.
Something twists in my chest. Not guilt. Something else. Darker. Hungrier.
Good.
The word forms in my mind, but it's not entirely mine. It's colder than my thoughts usually are. More vicious.
She hurt you. Now she hurts. That's fair.
I refresh the page. More articles populate. TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, every gossip outlet running the story. The comments section explodes:
Karma's coming for her.
She rejected a billionaire and now can't even book a Netflix show. LMAO.
Chase Sterling's quiet revenge is BRUTAL.
That last one makes me pause. They don't know. Can't prove anything. But they sense it anyway. The invisible hand of Sterling Industries tightening around her throat.
My publicist calls. I let it go to voicemail. She calls again.
I answer. "What?"
"Chase, people are connecting dots. Between you and the Vivian Ashford snub. I need to know: did you have anything to do with it?"
"I bought a studio. That's public record. What they do with their casting is their business."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She sighs. "Fine. But if this blows up—"
"It won't. And if it does, deny everything. I'm a businessman making sound investments. Nothing more."
I hang up before she can argue.
The photo of Vivian stares back at me from the screen. Tears, humiliation, the collapse of everything she came to LA to build.
I should feel satisfied. I do feel satisfied.
But underneath that satisfaction, something pulses. The cold in my veins surges, spreading through my chest, up my neck, into my skull. The migraine intensifies until I have to close my eyes against the pain.
More.
Helena's voice, or the curse's voice, or maybe they're the same thing now.
This is just the beginning. She needs to understand. You are the consequence of every choice she made.
I open my eyes. My reflection in the office window stares back, and for just a second, I swear it smiles before I do.
I pour another scotch, deeper this time.
Twitter updates with a new trending hashtag: #VivianAshfordSnubbed.
I click through the tweets. Thousands of people dissecting her failure, her tears, her audacity to think she could make it in Hollywood after what she did.
My phone buzzes. Text from Ethan: Did you really just sabotage her audition?
I don't answer.
Another text: Chase. This is fucked up. Even for you.
I turn the phone face down.
The cursor on my laptop blinks over Vivian's name in the studio system. One more click and I could see her full schedule. Every audition, every meeting, every pathetic attempt to build a career.
I click.
Four more auditions scheduled over the next two weeks. Small roles, indie films, commercial work. The desperate scramble of someone who thought they'd start at the top.
My finger hovers over the keyboard.
One email to the right people. One casual mention that Vivian Ashford is "difficult to work with" or "unreliable." That's all it takes in this industry. Whispers become truth.
The cold pulses stronger. The migraine pounds in time with my heartbeat.
Do it. Make her understand.
I start typing.
Then stop.
Something in me, some small piece that remembers who I used to be, hesitates.
But the cursor blinks. Patient. Waiting.
And the curse whispers promises of satisfaction, of justice, of finally being the one in control.
I take another drink.
The scotch burns going down, but it's nothing compared to the ice in my veins.
On my screen, Vivian's tearful face stares back at me from a dozen different articles. The internet has already convicted her. Already decided she deserves this.
And maybe they're right.
Maybe this is exactly what she deserves.
The whiskey glass catches the light as I raise it in a silent toast to the girl who thought she could reject a Sterling and walk away unscathed.
First blood is mine.
The curse pulses stronger, satisfied, hungry for more.
And I let it.