Early the next morning, the air in the Turner Studios boardroom was thick with the scent of old coffee and fresh malice. Blake, Mia, and Ashley had gathered to carve up my future, though I hadn't been invited. Blake had dismissed me, claiming it was a mere administrative ritual—nothing a "fading star" needed to worry about.
Ashley watched in silence as Mia paced the room like a hungry lynx. Mia didn't care that I had just resurrected a global brand; she saw me as a prized pelt to be traded, a trophy she intended to leash and break. She wanted absolute dominance over my hunt.
Ashley flicked the projector on, illuminating thirteen formal scrolls of intent. Among them were high-level tributes from the most prestigious "superstar factories" in the industry—Creative Century and Star Age. The
