Chapter 1
1056words
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, a forest of skyscrapers carved out the city's cold yet imposing skyline. James Trent lounged behind his obscenely expensive desk, fingers drumming restlessly on the polished surface as he endured the Market Director's mind-numbing report. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of premium cigars and artisanal coffee—the unmistakable perfume of power and wealth that had become his second skin.
Everything was business as usual until Kevin, his private assistant—a man who'd maintain his poker face even if the building collapsed around him—strode in with uncharacteristic urgency and bent to whisper in his ear.
James's brows knitted together as he cut the director off with a dismissive wave. "We'll reconvene in ten minutes."
The executives filed out like well-trained soldiers, leaving just him and Kevin in the suddenly silent office.
"This better be good," James growled, his deep voice carrying just enough edge to make lesser men flinch.
Kevin placed the tablet before him with surgical precision. "Sir, about Ms. Sophia you wanted monitored—her 'Starry Sky' jewelry campaign just dropped worldwide. It's causing quite the stir… more than anyone anticipated."
James's eyes locked onto the screen.
One glance was all it took.
In that moment, it seemed as if the screen had swallowed every photon in the room.
The woman on screen wore an emerald velvet gown that clung to her frame like a second skin. Her porcelain complexion and raven hair cascading like midnight silk made her stand apart from today's cookie-cutter beauties. No saccharine sweetness or gaudy flash here—just pure, aristocratic elegance. Those eyes of hers… Christ, they were bottomless pools holding entire galaxies, yet somehow remained distant, untouchable. The "Starry Sky" sapphires adorning her throat—jewels worth millions—somehow became mere trinkets next to her natural radiance.
She tilted her head just so, offering the camera the ghost of a smile—not to charm or seduce, but with the quiet confidence of someone who could see right through your soul to the other side.
Something seized James's heart in a vise grip, stealing his breath. He'd bedded socialites, dated celebrities, been pursued by supermodels… yet none had ever affected him like this. This wasn't just eye candy—this was an earthquake at his core, shaking foundations he didn't know existed.
The video ended, automatically loading the comments. Amid the predictable worship—"Queen just ended my whole existence" and "Sophia's beauty should be illegal"—some toxic voices stood out:
"Pfft, just another pretty face sleeping her way to the top."
"Daddy's money or sugar daddy's? Place your bets on who bought her that contract!"
"That Ivy League degree? Total BS. Photoshopped herself onto campus and boom—instant 'intellectual' brand. What a joke."
White-hot rage exploded in James's chest, fiercer than anything he'd felt when rivals tried to tank his stocks or steal his contracts. These fucking cockroaches—how dare they smear her name?
He stabbed the power button. When he spoke, his voice was arctic calm, but Kevin could practically see the barometric pressure plummeting in the office.
"Tell me everything you have on her," James demanded, each word precisely measured.
Kevin shifted into briefing mode: "Sophia burst onto the A-list about six months ago with 'Gate of Abyss.' Critics raved about her performance, but she's polarizing. Background's murky—rumors range from old-money academic family to having powerful industry backers. Academy University graduate, though trolls constantly challenge that credential."
James's finger froze mid-tap. Academy University? That place rejected applicants with perfect scores and presidential recommendations.
"Track down every single one of these comments. Names, IP addresses, everything," he ordered with the same deadly precision he used when dismantling competitor companies. "And what's her official title for this Starry Sky campaign?"
"Global ambassador, sir."
"Just global ambassador?" James arched an eyebrow, as if the title was insultingly inadequate for the woman who'd just commanded his screen. "Contact Starry Sky. See if they're open to a strategic investment from Trent Corporation."
Kevin's face remained professionally blank, but internally he was reeling. Buy an entire jewelry brand just to upgrade a spokesperson title? Jesus Christ. "Right away, sir."
When the executives filtered back in, they found their normally laser-focused president strangely distant.
James's fingers still drummed the table, but the rhythm had lost its precision. Behind his impassive face, he kept seeing those fathomless eyes… and those vile comments scrolling beneath them.
An unfamiliar compulsion grew in his chest—he needed to get closer to her, to eradicate every speck of filth thrown her way, to… claim that transcendent beauty as his own.
But how the hell should he approach this?
The usual playbook? Flowers? More jewelry? Career opportunities? He owned enough real estate to house a small nation, yachts that could qualify as cruise ships, jets that made Air Force One look economy class. He could deliver anything she wanted with a snap of his fingers. But something told him these typical billionaire moves would bounce right off a woman with eyes that distant—or worse, repulse her completely.
In business, he was the apex predator—crushing targets with overwhelming capital and ruthless precision. But for the first time in his adult life, James Trent felt utterly out of his depth. She wasn't some company to hostile-takeover, not a contract to strong-arm, not an asset with a price tag, no matter how high.
The meeting wrapped early. Back in his office sanctuary, James dismissed Kevin with a curt nod and stood alone at his window wall, gazing down at the glittering, soulless metropolis below.
After what seemed like hours, he pulled out his personal phone—the one not even his assistant had the number to—and with the careful concentration of a bomb technician, typed two words into the search bar:
[Fan culture]
Then, after a moment's hesitation:
[How to join a fan club]
His screen exploded with colorful pages and alien terminology: "streaming parties," "bias wreckers," "fancams," "stan Twitter," "comeback support," "lightstick etiquette," "fandom wars"… an entire parallel universe with its own language and laws.
James Trent—the man whose mere whisper could crash stock markets, whose name made billionaires break into cold sweats—stared at his phone with the bewildered intensity of someone deciphering ancient hieroglyphics.
Like he was analyzing the most complex hostile takeover of his career.
He had found himself a new project unlike any before.
And this project had just one target acquisition: Sophia.
