Chapter 133: She Doesn’t Stand A Chance

By the next night Chloe leaned over from her seat, showing her tablet screen with a satisfied, razor-sharp smile. "It’s done, babe. Full takedown executed. Millions of mirrors, re-uploads, and stream clips have been wiped clean. It’s completely gone from the internet."

"Perfect," I said, looking at the empty search results where Ruby’s performance used to be. "Now all that’s left is their move."

Meanwhile, miles away in a high-rise penthouse suite overlooking the city lights, Fastine Hope swirled a glass of vintage wine, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

She opened her phone, expecting to see her PR team flooding social media with headlines about ColdZon’s big win. Instead, her timeline was a complete disaster zone. ℴℴ𝘮

"What is going on?" she muttered, her brows furrowing as her manicured fingers swiped through the feeds.

Every major music blog and pop-culture account was posting empty video frames with red copyright notices. The comment sections weren’t talking about ColdZon at all. Millions of fans were going wild in the replies, demanding the video back, calling Ruby’s set the single greatest vocal performance of the decade—a raw level of artistic power no single artist under Quin Records could ever hope to replicate.

Fastine wasn’t just signed to Quin Records; her family held a massive stake in the label’s parent company. It was practically her empire too. And right now, she was completely baffled.

Why did they take it down? she thought, her pulse quickening with irritation. They should be begging for views! What kind of amateur play is this?!

Panic and frustration boiling over, she slammed her wine glass down onto the counter, grabbed her phone, and dialed Quin Records’ chief PR manager.

"What the hell are you people doing over there?!" Fastine hissed the second the line connected, her tone dripping with raw arrogance and attitude. "Why are all of Ruby Vane’s performance clips disappearing? Are you letting her team run the narrative?!"

"Fastine, relax, we’re monitoring it—"

"Don’t tell me to relax!" she snapped, pacing across the polished hardwood floor. "People are calling her performance legendary! They’re saying the award was stolen! Fix this right now or I’m having your entire team replaced by morning!"

There was a tense, frantic pause on the other end before the head publicist spoke up, trying to sound clever. "Wait... Fastine, listen to me. This takedown... what if we turn it against them?"

Fastine stopped pacing. "Explain. Quickly."

"They scrubbed the video because there’s no official copy left online," the PR chief pitched eagerly. "Without the source footage, nobody can actually verify what happened on that stage. We run a full press blast claiming Ruby’s team took it down out of embarrassment—because her live vocal track was heavily pitch-corrected and over-edited by the venue’s audio crew! We frame the takedown as them trying to hide ’studio magic’!"

A slow, cruel grin spread across Fastine’s face. Without the real video around to prove otherwise, the public would easily fall for the lie. It was classic PR warfare.

"Brilliant," Fastine purred, her sass returning instantly. "Draft the press release now. I want every major entertainment outlet running the ’studio magic’ story before breakfast."

She hung up, tossing her phone onto the plush sofa with a triumphant laugh. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city, convinced she had just sealed Ruby’s fate for good.

Her personal assistant walked nervously into the living room, holding out a ringing satellite phone on a silver tray.

"Ma’am..." the assistant stammered, avoiding her sharp glare. "You... you have an incoming call on the direct line."

Fastine crossed her arms, annoyed. "Who is calling me at this hour? I told you I’m not taking press inquiries."

"He didn’t state an agency, Ma’am," the assistant whispered, trembling slightly under the cold weight of the moment. "He just said... his name is Ethan."

Fastine let out a sharp, mocking laugh into the receiver, settling back against her leather sofa.

"Well, well, what a surprise," she purred, her tone dripping with condescending amusement. "Did you call to beg for Ruby’s career back, Ethan? Because I have to tell you, my schedule is pretty packed tomorrow."

"I called to negotiate," I replied, my voice smooth, quiet, and completely devoid of panic.

Fastine paused, surprised by the absolute composure in my tone, before her smug smile returned. "Negotiate? From the losing side? Fine, I’ll bite. What do you have in mind?"

"I heard you know how to play chess," I said calmly.

"I don’t just know how to play," she smirked, swirling her glass. "I was state-ranked in high school. What about it?"

"Good," I said, a cold, calculating smile playing on my lips. "Let’s play chess. Winner takes all."

---

The moment I ended the call and tossed my phone onto the table, all four pairs of eyes were locked onto me in complete, stunned silence.

"Okay," Chloe said slowly, leaning forward with her arms crossed, her legal sharp mind trying to process what she’d just overheard. "What evil plan are you cooking up now? Why are you playing chess with Fastine Hope?"

"Simple," I said with a slow, predatory smirk. "Quin Records is about to take our bait and launch that smear campaign claiming Ruby used ’studio magic.’ But for this trap to snap shut perfectly, Fastine needs to commit to it completely without her PR team pulling back at the last second when our single drops."

"So where does the chess game come in?" May asked, raising an eyebrow with a grin.

"I’m keeping her completely distracted," I explained. "During a high-stakes match, she won’t be checking her phone or monitoring her team’s rollouts. I’m going to occupy every ounce of her mental energy, keep her locked at that board, and make sure she stays blind until the single hits every distribution platform worldwide. By the time our game is over, the trap will already be sprung."

Ruby’s eyes widened with pure admiration, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "You’re going to keep her occupied so she can’t call off the press release..."

"Precisely," I murmured.

I walked over to the suit rack in the tour bus lounge, pulling off my casual jacket and slipping into a tailored, crisp black suit. I adjusted my cuffs and smoothed out the lapels in the mirror, looking sharp, calm, and utterly lethal.

"Wish me luck, girls," I said, looking back at them with a smooth, dangerous smile.

"You don’t need luck," Patricia said, returning my smile with absolute faith. "She doesn’t stand a chance."