Georgina sat humiliated on the cold marble floor. The whispers of the guests felt like needles piercing her skin.
She knew she couldn't throw a tantrum. She had to maintain the victim persona. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing more tears to fall, and placed her hands on the floor, pretending she was too weak to stand.
A pale, long-fingered hand appeared in her line of sight, holding a crisp white handkerchief.
Georgina looked up. A young man with slightly curly, shoulder-length hair and melancholic eyes was looking down at her with deep sympathy.
It was Arturo Veil. The rising indie film director known for his dark, psychological movies about broken people.
Georgina recognized him instantly. A sharp, calculating light flashed behind her tears.
She reached out with a trembling hand, took the handkerchief, and let him gently pull her to her feet. "Thank you, Mr. Veil," she whispered, her voice breaking perfectly.
Arturo looked at her stained white dress and her red, tear-filled eyes. His artistic savior complex flared to life.
"In this fake circle, the kindest people are always the ones who get hurt," Arturo said softly.
Georgina offered a bitter, tragic smile and looked down. "It's fine. As long as my sister's anger is appeased, my suffering doesn't matter."
Arturo felt a surge of disgust toward Elba, the arrogant heiress, and a strong protective urge toward Georgina. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a matte black business card.
"If you ever want to escape this toxic environment," Arturo said, "I have a role in my next film that is perfect for you. Call me."
Georgina gripped the card like a lifeline. She bowed her head in thanks, but inside, she was screaming with triumph. Hollywood resources secured.
Outside, the black Maybach glided smoothly through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan.
In the backseat, Elba had kicked off her high heels. She curled her legs up onto the leather seat, completely abandoning her posture.
Angelo sat beside her. He watched her relaxed form, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips.
Elba stared out the window at the passing lights.
He was so cool back there! she thought, still riding the high. That line about not being able to stand up? Absolute perfection!
Angelo's ears grew slightly warm. He brought a fist to his mouth and coughed softly to hide his reaction.
Elba turned her head. She looked at his sharp jawline. A sudden wave of anxiety hit her stomach.
But... he defended me so publicly, she worried internally. That's going to piss off the corporate syndicate backing Georgina.
Angelo's eyes narrowed instantly. Corporate syndicate?
Tomorrow morning, that old fox Dax Mencher is going to launch his attack, Elba continued in her mind. Angelo's trust fund hasn't been activated yet. How is he going to fight back without that capital?
Angelo's heart pounded. Dax Mencher. The Potter Group's biggest rival. He was attacking tomorrow?
Angelo immediately reached into the seat pocket and pulled out his encrypted tablet. He opened the corporate calendar and the live stock market feeds, his eyes scanning the data rapidly.
Elba watched him suddenly start working. She assumed she was distracting him. She quietly slid further into her corner and closed her eyes.
Whatever, she sighed in her mind. I'll just take it one day at a time. If the company goes bankrupt, I'll just go wash dishes at a diner to support him.
Angelo's finger froze over the glass screen.
Wash dishes to support him.
A strange, intense heat bloomed in the center of his chest. He turned his head. Elba was already half-asleep, her breathing evening out.
He picked up his suit jacket from the seat and draped it gently over her body.
He looked back at the tablet, his jaw setting into a hard line. No one is touching the Potter Group. And you will never wash a single dish.
The Maybach descended into the underground garage. The war was starting at dawn.
