The news of the acquisition of Stellar Management sent a ripple of shock through the industry. It was announced via a terse press release.
The agency had been acquired by a private equity firm, and a new president, Clara Bellweather, was taking over effective immediately.
The name of the equity firm was deliberately obscure, and Clara's professional history was listed as "extensive experience in corporate restructuring and asset management," a description so vague it was practically a smokescreen.
To the outside world, it was just another corporate shuffle, a story that would be forgotten by the next news cycle.
Inside the walls of Stellar Management, however, it was a revolution. Clara arrived on Monday morning like a force of nature.
She was a woman in her late thirties with a severe black bob, piercing eyes, and an aura of such intense competence that it seemed to suck the air out of the room.
She did not introduce herself with a welcoming speech. She convened an all hands meeting in the main conference room that felt more like a court martial.
"Stellar Management is under new ownership," she announced, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth. "The previous business model has been deemed inefficient and, in some cases, predatory. This will change. Our new philosophy is simple. Talent first. We will be a boutique agency focused on nurturing and protecting a small, elite roster of clients. Every action we take will be in the best interest of our talent's long-term career and well-being. Those who cannot or will not adapt to this new philosophy will find their positions redundant."
Her gaze swept across the room, and a palpable chill went through the assembled agents. This was not a pep talk. It was a declaration of war on the old way of doing things and the acquisition was complete.
Leila Vance, from her position as the silent, unseen majority shareholder, had placed her queen on the board. Clara was not just a VIP.
She was Leila's most loyal and effective instrument, a woman who understood her boss's intentions with minimal instruction and executed them with ruthless efficiency.
Leila had chosen Clara for this role specifically because of her loyalty and her lack of sentimentality. "Xavier Thorne is the agency's priority asset,"
Leila had instructed her in a private briefing. "His professional life has been mismanaged. I want you to clean house, Clara. Find the rot and cut it out. Build a fortress around him. Give him the best team, the best opportunities, and absolute protection. He is not to be distracted by the business side of things. His only job is to create."
"And the budget for this restructuring?" Clara had asked, her pen poised over a notebook.
"Unlimited," Leila had replied without hesitation. "Bill it to Aperture Holdings."
Now Clara was putting that directive into action. Her first order of business was a complete and total audit of all client contracts and accounts, with a particular focus on the agency's highest earner, Xavier Thorne.
She and a team of forensic accountants, flown in from one of Nexus's top consulting firms, locked themselves in a conference room.
They worked for 48 hours straight, fueled by coffee and a cold, methodical fury.
Leila received updates from Clara every few hours.
The picture that emerged was one of gross negligence and outright theft. Jerry had been skimming from Xavier's endorsement deals, double-billing for expenses, and even selling Xavier's private travel itineraries to paparazzi agencies with the total amount he had embezzled was staggering.
Leila felt a cold, satisfying anger. This was the proof she needed. The justification for the purge that was to come. She had bought the agency not just to protect Xavier, but to punish those who had harmed him.
The finalization of the acquisition was not just a business transaction. It was the loading of a gun, and Clara was about to pull the trigger.
Jerry was having a fantastic week. The new management seemed to be a bunch of corporate stiffs, but they had not bothered him yet. He had just closed a lucrative, if mindnumbingly dull, mattress endorsement for one of his lesser clients, skimming a healthy, untraceable finder's fee for himself. He was leaning back in his chair, scrolling through listings for beachfront properties in Cabo, when his office door swung open.
Clara Bellweather stood there, flanked by two imposing security guards. Her expression was as blank and unforgiving.
"Jerry," she said, her voice cutting through the air. She did not use his last name. It was a deliberate, calculated insult. "Your services are no longer required."
Jerry blinked, a smug smile still lingering on his face. "I'm sorry, I think you're mistaken. I handle Xavier Thorne. I'm a little more than redundant."
"You handled Xavier Thorne," Clara corrected, stepping aside. A man in a sharp suit, one of the forensic accountants, stepped forward and placed a thick, spiral-bound report on Jerry's desk.
"This is a full audit of your accounts concerning Mr. Thorne's earnings for the past five years. It makes for fascinating reading."
Jerry's smile vanished. He stared at the report, his face draining of color. The cover page was titled
Analysis of Financial Discrepancies and Suspected Embezzlement
He started to sweat.
"We have found," Clara continued, her voice a low, dangerous monotone, "that you have systematically defrauded Mr. Thorne of approximately 3.7 million dollars through inflated commissions, fraudulent expense reports, and undisclosed side deals. We have bank records, signed invoices, and sworn testimony from the other parties."
She let the information hang in the air. The office, which had been buzzing with the low hum of business, had gone completely silent.
Everyone was watching.
This was not a quiet dismissal. It was a public execution.
"Now," Clara said, "the new ownership is feeling generous. We are presenting you with two options. Option A. We turn this report and all its supporting evidence over to the District Attorney's office. You will be prosecuted for grand larceny and fraud. You will go to prison. Option B. You sign this document."
The accountant placed a single sheet of paper and a pen on top of the damning report. "This is a confession and a repayment agreement. You will forfeit your last three years of commissions, your pension, and sign over the deed to your house in the Hamptons. In return, we will not press criminal charges. You will be allowed to walk out of this building. You have sixty seconds to decide."
Jerry stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He was trapped. Utterly and completely trapped. His blustering, confident persona crumbled, revealing the pathetic, greedy little man underneath.
His hands shook so violently he could barely pick up the pen. With a choked sob, he signed the paper.
He was escorted to a black sedan. He thought he might still reach Xavier and called him in desperation.
His voice trembled as he spoke, laced with complaints, accusations, and insults.
"Xavier, you have no idea what you are doing. This is unfair. You don't understand what I've done for you. You're making a huge mistake. I've managed everything, I know the business, I—"
Xavier cut him off with a single sentence, calm, lethal, absolute. "Meet me at Hotel IceQu ."
Jerry went to the hotel then he saw Xavier before even speaking, Xavier's voice cut through him, calm, cold, commanding. "There is nothing to explain. You were never useful. You were predictable. Entertaining, yes, but useful only as a pawn. You will stay alive because someone this stupid is far easier to manipulate than someone clever. Consider yourself… a tool. Learn your place and go tell that woman she cannot stretch her hands anymore."
Jerry froze. His face went pale. He tried to speak again but found no words.
"Goodbye," Xavier said.
The guards, already in place, collected him once more, escorting him across town. Without ceremony, without dignity, they left him near Xavier's stepmother and father's Villa. Jerry slumped against the gate, realization and humiliation washing over him. The game was not over for him, but every move had already been dictated.
Xavier returned to his office. He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, tension from the day melting into controlled amusement. His fingers traced the edges of his sleek black company card.
A slow, sharp smile curved his lips. He lifted the card and bit the tip lightly, savoring the gesture, the sense of control, the thrill of the day's chessboard moves.
"I have the string to get you, my sweet guardian," he murmured to himself, voice low, intimate. Heat rose to his cheeks before he could stop it.
He turned abruptly, pressing a hand to his face. "I broke my character twice because of her," he admitted, his voice soft, almost unheard.
The city lights below twinkled, and the world moved on. The game was far from over. Xavier Thorne, cold, dominant, precise, amused, and always in control, had already set his next moves into motion.