Mr. CEO Kneels to Win Me Back

2025， Los Angeles. The Met Gala red carpet has never been just a fashion show， it’s a gladiator ring for the elite， where spotlights are blades and camera lenses are loaded guns. Elena Hart stepped forward on seven-centimeter stilettos， her moon-white couture gown flowing over the scarlet carpet like solidified moonlight. But the true spectacle hung around her neck: a phoenix crafted from 428 micro-LEDs and antique diamonds， shifting from matte gold to fiery crimson as she moved， as if ready to incinerate the sky with a single beat of its wings. “Ms. Hart! Over here!” “Elena! Does the necklace symbolize rebirth?” “Rumor says you used BlackwoodAI’s algorithm to design it—is that true?” Questions shot like bullets. Elena only smiled， her lips curved with precision engineered for close-ups. Rebirth? Yes. Using her ex-husband’s algorithm? Absolutely. This was exactly the reaction she wanted. Just as she reached the museum’s main hall， her wrist was clamped in a borderline violent grip. Leather gloves. Icy touch. The familiar scent of bitter orange and cedar， laced with coiled rage. No need to turn around. She knew who it was. Over three years of marriage， this hand had held hers countless times—whenever she tried to express emotion， whenever he needed“calm analysis.” “Let go， Mr. Blackwood.” Her voice was steady， ground out between teeth. Damian Blackwood didn’t release her. His knuckles whitened， nearly bruising her wrist. Live cameras swiveled** toward them， shutters erupting like greedy waves. “That necklace，” he hissed， each word frosted，“you used the Visual Heritage Restoration Module for structural analysis.Myopen-source code.” Elena finally turned. Under the spotlights， her face was porcelain-pale， but her eyes blazed.“I paid for it.$299 a month. Should I display the subscription records and invoices for the global live stream， Mr. Blackwood?” The honorific made his pupils contract. The world watched as Silicon Valley’s poster boy for cold rationality lost control， clutching his ex-wife’s wrist on the Met Gala red carpet. “You did this on purpose.” He stared at the phoenix burning against her collarbone.“Using my algorithm for this…‘rebirth’ symbolism. Tonight. Here.” Elena laughed. It was a beautiful sound， yet as cold as the clearest diamond on her necklace. “Aren’t your algorithms supposed to be omnipotent， Damian?” She used the old name publicly for the first time， her tone sharp with mockery， volume dropping to a private whisper.“Did they predict how high human dopamine spikes when executing a perfect counterattack?” She pulled free with a gesture both graceful and unyielding. Her wrist slipped from his palm， leaving a trace of her tuberose and cedar perfume… and a faint， familiar saltiness. Like the taste of tears. Damian froze. Elena walked toward the museum’s bottomless glow， her moon-white train brushing the threshold. Before vanishing， she turned half her face， lashes casting fine shadows in the glare. “Oh， and next month’s Global Tech Ethics Summit—I’m the opening keynote speaker.” Her voice cut through microphones， echoing down the carpet.“Working title:When Algorithms Try to Price Love: An Analysis of BlackwoodAI’s Emotional Recognition Model Exploitation. Do tune in， Mr. Blackwood.” She was gone. Damian stood surrounded by chaos， shutter clicks， gasps， the host’s desperate damage control—all blurring into static. His ears rang with her final words， and another sentence he’d spoken three years ago， now boomeranging to gut him: “Your tears are just 0.3 seconds of pupil constriction data in my system， Elena. Emotions have no value.” Assistant Chen Qi pushed through the crowd， voice frantic:“Boss! The live clip’s trending!#BlackwoodMetGalaMeltdown has 230 million views! Emergency board emails!” Damian didn’t move. He stared at his right hand—the one that had held her. The expensive leather glove still carried the ghost of her warmth， and that damn， unquantifiable“taste of tears.” He ripped off the glove and hurled it onto the scarlet carpet. “Back to the office.” He turned， voice ragged，** the glow that had swallowed her.“Suspend the Emotional Recognition 4.0 project. All of it.” “But the launch next month—” “I said， suspend.” The black car door slammed shut， sealing out prying eyes. Inside， Damian unlocked his vibrating phone. A message from an encrypted number: Heard your algorithms predict heartbreak? Did they tell you she sold her Santa Monica beach house after signing the divorce papers… and used every cent to buy BlackwoodAI’s seed round stock? The same money that funded your first emotion recognition prototype. Sweet dreams， Damian. You just publicly assaulted your“angel investor.” Attached was a photo: Three years ago， courthouse corridor. Elena’s back to the camera， shoulders thin and trembling， clutching a crumpled paper. Zoomed in: a stock subscription certificate， smudged but legible:BlackwoodAI - Seed Round - Subscriber: Elena Hart. At the bottom， a handwritten note in fountain pen， ink blurred by liquid—heavy， sodden: His dream matters more than my tears. Outside the window， Los Angeles neon blazed like an endless cyberpunk mirage. Inside， Damian Blackwood leaned against the seat， feeling something he’d never before quantified—a sharp， suffocating sensation no data model could define. The word for it， he realized， was“regret.” On the museum’s second-floor terrace， Elena Hart clinked champagne flutes with a silver-haired man， Wall Street’s legendary“Vulture，” Wei Zhongxian. Her phoenix necklace glowed softly in the night. Her war had only just begun. His hell was already wide open.