The Liebert's Protocol

New part of me?

The journalist, a woman named Sarah with eyes like a hawk, leaned forward. She didn’t look at my notes. She looked at the Cursed Movie Legends notebook I’d accidentally left on the table.

"Miss Liebert, there are rumors that while your family's factories were struggling, you were in Beijing writing... comics?" She let the word hang in the air like it was something dirty. "The board is looking for a leader, not a scriptwriter. Don't you think the shareholders deserve someone who focuses on profit margins instead of ghost stories?"

I felt the heat crawl up my neck. In the back of the room, I saw Andrew shift. He looked like he was about to step in and shut it down, but I didn't give him the chance.

"A brand is just a story we tell the public to make them care about fabric," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "You think I was wasting time? In the comic world, if your pacing is off, you lose your audience. If your character doesn't have a soul, no one buys the book."

I leaned forward, mirroring her posture.

"Our textile division isn't failing because of the fabric. It’s failing because the 'story' is old. It’s boring. I spent my time in China studying how to build a world that people actually want to live in. If I can make a million people care about a 'ghost story' on a screen, imagine what I can do with a legacy brand like this."

"A story doesn't fix a four-point dip in market share," Sarah countered, her pen hovering over her notepad like a weapon. "The shareholders don't want 'soul,' Miss Liebert. They want stability. They want to know why the heiress to a multi-billion dollar textile empire was ghost-hunting in China while our supply chain was buckling."

I took a slow sip of the cold espresso, letting the bitterness ground me. I didn't look at Andrew. I didn't need to.

"Actually, it’s the only thing that fixes it," I said, setting the cup down with a deliberate, quiet clack. "We’ve been so focused on 'yarn counts' and 'logistics' that we’ve forgotten why people wear our clothes. They wear them to feel like a character in their own life. Our competitors aren't selling fabric; they are selling a narrative. I didn't spend my time in Beijing hiding. I spent it studying how to build a world that people actually want to engage with."

I tapped the cover of my Cursed Movie Legends notebook.

"I’m not just a writer, Sarah. I’m an architect of attention. If I can make a global audience obsess over a legend on a page, imagine what I can do when I apply that same narrative pull to a legacy brand that has forgotten how to speak to its customers."

Sarah stared at me for a long beat, the skepticism in her eyes slowly shifting into something like reluctant respect. She looked down at her notes, then back at me.

"An interesting pivot," she finally conceded, her tone losing its edge. "I suppose we’ll see if the 'Architect of Attention' can build a bridge back to profitability. Thank you for your time, Miss Liebert."

"Thank you, Sarah. I appreciate the candor."

I didn't rush to get up. I stayed in my seat while the crew began the mechanical process of unpinning the microphones and shifting the heavy LED lights. I nodded politely to the producer, thanking them for the session, and waited until the 'Live' light was completely dead before I finally stood up.

I gathered my notebook and my tablet, smoothing the lines of my suit with a calm I didn't actually feel. My heart was still hammering, but my face was a mask of professional boredom.

Andrew was leaning against the doorframe at the back of the studio. He didn't say anything as I approached, but his eyes followed every step I took. He reached out as I passed, his hand catching the edge of my notebook. He didn't take it; he just held it for a second, his thumb brushing the ink-stained cover.

"The 'architect of attention'?" he repeated. His voice was low, and for once, the robotic frost was gone. "That wasn't in the briefing."

"The briefing was defensive, Andrew. I’m done asking for permission to exist in my own company."

He looked at me—really looked at me—without the 'underage' insult or the 'liability' label in his eyes. He let go of the notebook, his fingers lingering near mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"You handled the supply chain question better than the legal team would have," he muttered, adjusting his cufflink. "Maybe those 'ghost stories' aren't a total waste of time."

He held the door open for me, staying close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his suit.

"Don't get cocky," he whispered as we hit the hallway. "But that was... impressive.

CHAPTER 6.5

The car ride to the Grand Sterling was quieter than the one that morning, but the air was just as thin. I watched the city lights blur against the window, the caffeine from the espresso still buzzing uncomfortably under my skin.

Andrew sat with his tablet open, the light reflecting off his glasses. He didn't look like he was gloating about the interview win. He looked like he was preparing for a funeral.

"Silas Vane is going to be there tonight," he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "He’s been a board member since your grandfather’s first heart attack. He doesn't care about your 'narrative' or your storytelling. He cares about the fact that your absence in Beijing cost the company an eight-figure contract with the European distributors."

"I know who Silas is, Andrew."

"Then you know he’s a predator," Andrew snapped, finally looking at me. "He’s spent the last six months convincing the other members that you’re a flight risk. He’s going to try to rattle you. He’ll mention your writing, your age, or the fact that you left. Don't engage. Just nod, keep your answers short, and move on."

"So I'm supposed to just let him insult me?"

"I'm saying don't give him a headline," Andrew said, his tone softening just a fraction. "He wants you to look like a temperamental artist. If you lose your cool, you prove him right. You aren't there to be liked, Marie. You're there to show them you aren't going anywhere."

We pulled up to the curb. The red carpet was a gauntlet of flashing lights and security detail. I felt a sudden, sharp spike of vertigo as the valet reached for the door handle.

"Wait," Andrew said.

He reached over, his fingers grazing my chin as he turned my face toward him. He wasn't being romantic—he was checking my makeup. He took a tissue and wiped a tiny smudge of red from the corner of my mouth. His touch was clinical, yet my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"You look like a Liebert," he muttered, his eyes holding mine for a second too long. "Keep the mask on. Let’s go."