Chapter 8

Before enlisting, my grandfather taught me: for spoiled heirs like Preston Vanderbilt, the only solution is direct, overwhelming force.

Forget his connections. Hit him first.

I stood swiftly and kicked him square in the chest.

With a choked gasp, the previously invincible "Prince" flew back two meters, landing hard.

He lay gasping on the floor. "You... you kicked me! The Vanderbilts will destroy you!"

I crouched beside him, my voice conversational. "Preston, let me educate you on a few things."

"First—I'm not just an actor. I did three years of military service before I ever stepped on a set. Special operations. The kick I just gave you? That was the gentle version."

Preston's face contorted between pain and disbelief.

"Second—your father is currently on the phone with my grandfather. As we speak, Shaw Studios is pulling the Vanderbilt distribution deal. That's four hundred million in projected revenue, gone."

"You're bluffing—"

"Third." I leaned closer. "The videos and photos your publicist took? My security team has already flagged her phone. If any of that footage surfaces, Shaw Studios' legal department—a division with more lawyers than your company has employees—will bury Vanderbilt Global in litigation for the next decade."

I stood up and straightened my jacket.

Preston's publicist was already deleting files, her hands trembling.

"My advice?" I extended a hand to help him up—a gesture of mercy, not friendship. "Go home. Call your father. Tell him to call mine and beg for the deal back. There might still be time."

Preston slapped my hand away and staggered to his feet. The arrogance was gone. In its place was raw, undisguised hatred.

"This isn't over, Shaw."

"Actually, it is." I glanced at my watch—a vintage Patek Philippe my grandfather gave me on my twenty-first birthday. "I have dinner reservations."

Preston limped out, his publicist scurrying behind him.

The dressing room was now considerably emptier. Just me, Isabella, and Arthur Young.

Arthur sank into a chair and rubbed his temples. Isabella stood in the middle of the room, her designer gown suddenly looking ridiculous in the aftermath of the carnage.

"Sebastian," Arthur said quietly. "I'm going to be direct with you. Young Enterprises needs Shaw Studios. Without this partnership, we're looking at restructuring within the year."

"I know."

"My daughter was manipulated by Wesley and blinded by Preston's flash. She's many things, but she's not evil."

I looked at Isabella. She hadn't said a word since her father arrived.

"Ms. Young," I said. "I'm not interested in the wedding. But I am interested in whether you're capable of being honest—even once."

She met my eyes. The ice was gone. What remained was something rawer—embarrassment, maybe. Or the beginning of self-awareness.

"I didn't read the agreement before Wesley gave it to you," she said quietly. "I trusted him. That was my mistake."

It wasn't a full apology. But it was the first truthful thing she'd said all day.

"It's a start," I said.