"I do love your mother. But she's more like a… a pet to me."
Ethan's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Damn. Oof. And she's watching this? That's… brutal. Poor soul if this was real life now, she would take at least 90% of everything he owns thanks to that.
"You want to die for this planet? Fine! What's seventeen more years? I can always start again… make another kid."
Ethan's hand shot to his mouth, almost knocking his phone out of his lap. Fuck, Mark is gonna die.
"Maybe this time you'll learn."
Wait, what? No. No way. He can't. He can't really—fuck! He really is gonna… fuckkkkk! Ethan's heart was doing acrobatics in his chest as Omni-Man held Mark down as a speeding bullet train was headed towards the father son duo. The van around him felt suddenly tiny, claustrophobic, like he'd shrunk into his seat. He didn't care. Hands over his mouth, he was practically vibrating with excitement and horror at the same time. Holy crap, this is insane. This is peak chaos.
"Think, Mark! You'll outlast every fragile, insignificant being on this planet! You'll live to see this world crumble to dust and blow away! Everyone and everything you know will be gone! What would you have after 500 years?"
"You, Dad… I'd still have you."
Ethan almost laughed and cried at the same time, the way the scene twisted from absolute carnage to this soft, ridiculous familial moment. Oh my god. That's… that's actually beautiful. And messed up. And beautiful. Peak television. Absolute peak.
He was sprawled in the massive, absurdly over-equipped van—his sanctuary on wheels—finally giving himself a moment to binge one of his favorite shows. Invincible had been sitting on his watchlist since last year, taunting him with its bright thumbnail, and last night he'd finally given in. The makeup team worked obliviously around him, powders and brushes flying, smearing color on his cheeks and forehead while he was entirely lost in the drama, gore, and father-son melodrama playing on his phone.
Mark, bloodied, swollen-faced, battered almost beyond recognition… and yet, in the next shot, standing on a baseball field with his dad and mom, the sun hitting their faces just right… Ethan's brain basically melted. He slouched deeper into his seat, the van suddenly feeling like the perfect theater. This shit is peak. Peak, peak, peak. Like… the universe couldn't even invent a better show for me right now.
He let out a long, awed sigh. I could die happy right now. Actually no—don't die, Ethan. You've got more shows to watch Loki next then House of Dragons after. Ethan thought as his minds started thinking of what next to watch as his eyes were still glued to the screen watching as Nolan flew away into space in an epic scene. But before he could finish the rest of the show They came.
A soft pop sounded in Ethan's ear as one of his AirPods was pulled free, and for the first time in a while the outside world crashed back in on him—voices, footsteps, the low hum of engines, fabric rustling, someone coughing somewhere behind him.
He blinked, momentarily disoriented, then turned, shock flashing across his face at the audacity of it—only to be met with the hard, tightly wound expression of Rebecca. Not his former assistant. His actual PR manager. The woman who carried his image, his reputation, his silence, and his future on her shoulders.
She stared at him like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. And honestly, with how important today was, she was more than justified.
"Are you serious right now?" she said, her voice sharp but controlled. "You're still watching that cartoon?"
Rebecca stood just outside the van, framed by the open door, looking every bit like she belonged on a red carpet instead of a parking lot. She wore a sleek black gown tailored to perfection, the fabric hugging her figure before cascading down in clean, elegant lines. A subtle slit ran along one leg, revealing just enough to be deliberate, not distracting. Silver detailing traced along the neckline like fine embroidery, catching the light every time she moved, paired with understated heels and minimal jewelry that screamed power without trying too hard.
She folded her arms, clearly not done. She went on about how this—this—was exactly why he'd stayed up late last night. How the makeup artists had needed extra time and extra care. How today wasn't just another event, not just another appearance. How he was about to step into the biggest award show in the entire world and he was sitting here, calm as ever, watching an animated series like nothing mattered.
Ethan stayed silent. Not just because he still couldn't talk—but because, for once, he genuinely had nothing to say in his defense.
I mean… how do you even justify this? he thought, watching her pace just slightly as she spoke. In a few hours I'll be on the biggest stage in music history… and here I am watching a TV show.
Rebecca kept reminding him how important tonight was, how much was riding on it, how many eyes were waiting. Ethan simply nodded, eyes calm, mind elsewhere, absorbing it all without resistance.
A few minutes later, the large black van—previously parked in front of Ethan's apartment like an immovable monument—finally rolled forward. Now filled with people, the absurdly spacious vehicle suddenly felt smaller, tighter, packed with intention.
At the front sat Marcus and Devon, suited head to toe in black, every detail sharp and deliberate. One drove while the other stayed alert, scanning mirrors and surroundings, both bodyguards and chauffeurs for the night.
Just behind them sat Bill, phone pressed to his ear as he spoke in hushed, serious tones. His wife sat right beside him, glowing effortlessly. The two were subtly coordinated—Bill in a tailored dark suit that was clearly a step above his usual rugged look, his hair neatly styled, beard trimmed just enough to look intentional. Forced, undoubtedly, by his wife. She, on the other hand, wore something flashier—bold fabric, a fitted silhouette, and diamonds that caught the light every time she shifted, unapologetically expensive and proud of it.
Next to them sat Jessica, equally absorbed in her own call, dressed in a sharp, modern women's suit that balanced professionalism and style. Clean lines, structured shoulders, and heels that meant business.
Behind her sat Rebecca, finally seated now, and for the first time the person beside her wasn't one of her assistants. Due to quotas, last-minute reshuffling, and unavoidable changes, the seat had gone to someone else entirely.
Vivienne.
Now fully hired. Fully official. The creative director of anything and everything Ethan Jones.
She wore something bold and fashion-forward—an avant-garde silhouette that played with structure and texture, black layered with muted metallic accents, sharp shoulders softened by flowing fabric. It wasn't safe. It wasn't traditional. It was intentional. The kind of outfit that made sense only if you were confident enough to pull it off.
And she was.
She and Rebecca—along with an unreleased song buried deep in Ethan's vault, created years ago with Max Martin during the making of Ethan's first and only album—had crafted a daring, audacious solution to the Grammy problem. A plan risky enough to terrify any label executive. A plan bold enough to change everything.
And tonight, on the biggest music award stage on the planet, the Ethan Jones team was about to implement it.
Vivienne, seated close to Ethan at the back, turned her head toward him. Dough sat beside Ethan in a simple but undeniably expensive black suit, understated and clean.
Vivienne studied Ethan for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Wow," she said. "Wisdom really did a great job. This is exactly what I pictured."
She tilted her head slightly, impressed. "That kid is talented. Too bad he doesn't want to be tied down."
She sighed softly, almost to herself, muttering, "It's going to be so hard to replace him."
After the meeting between the core team members in Ethan's home—just hours after he had returned from surgery—Bill had gone to work immediately. There had been no delay, no easing into it, no grace period. The same day, while Ethan was still recovering, still quiet, still processing everything, Bill had made the calls that officially reshaped the structure around him.
Vivienne was hired fully. No more temporary contracts, no more "post-tour discussions." She was in. Official. Permanent.
The band was let go—cleanly, professionally, with gratitude and respect. They were session musicians, in demand, already booked for other gigs. Mark, the tour manager, was also informed that his services were no longer required now that the tour had ended. It was business, not personal. Even the old driver—who had been with them since the earlier legs of the tour—had resigned himself after receiving his bonus, one Ethan had apparently prepared well in advance.
No one left empty-handed. Fired or not, every single person who had worked on the tour walked away with compensation generous enough to quiet resentment and soften disappointment. But money wasn't the only thing Bill and Jessica made sure of.
Anyone—anyone—who knew even a fragment of Ethan's current voice predicament was made to sign a strict NDA. No exceptions. No delays. No misunderstandings. Silence, legally enforced.
Inside the apartment, Bill finally lowered his phone, rubbing his face as if the weight of the last few days had settled into his bones. He exhaled deeply, then looked toward Ethan.
"Ethan," he said, sighing, "about the financial guys we were supposed to meet… we can't postpone it again."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The day after tomorrow, we have to go see them. They're insisting it's important."
Ethan met his gaze, calm as ever, and gave a simple nod. No problem. No resistance.
Stephanie, Bill's wife, turned her attention toward Ethan then, her tone softening. "Paul's done with his exams," she said warmly. "He'll be heading home soon for the holidays. How's Precious? This is her first exam period there, isn't it?"
Dough, seated beside Ethan, answered gently on his behalf. "She's done too. But she has a prior engagement over there, so she isn't flying back just yet. She said the exams went smoothly."
Stephanie smiled, visibly relieved. "Oh, that's lovely." She nodded to herself. "I'll call Emily later. The last time I spoke to her, they were somewhere in a savannah in Africa."
Across the room, Jessica ended her own call. "No problem," she said into the phone. "Okay then. Thank you, sir."
She lowered the device, and instantly the atmosphere shifted. The room went quiet, every pair of eyes turning toward her, tension thick enough to feel. Jessica looked up, smiled, and simply said,
"The video is ready."
The reaction was immediate. Celebration erupted—relieved laughter, claps, exhaled breaths. Even Stephanie, who didn't fully understand the context, found herself smiling and joining in, carried by the energy of the moment.
"That was fast," Dough muttered under his breath, impressed.
"Told you," Vivienne said coolly. "They're quick."
Bill grinned broadly. "Send it to me. I want to see how it turned out."
"I want it too," Vivienne added instantly.
Ethan raised his hand slightly, signaling that he wanted a copy as well.
As the requests overlapped, Rebecca—who had been quietly observing from her seat—finally spoke up.
"Hold on. Hold on," she said, lifting her hand. She looked around the room, expression serious. "We still have a few hours to check how the video turned out. But the show is only minutes away now."
She paused, letting the weight of that sink in.
"I just feel that before we head into the busiest few hours of our lives… we should— I don't know—maybe go through the plan for the day one more time?"
A/N
Hey guys, sorry for the short, information-heavy chapter. as you all know i had an unforeseen break, which gave me a lot of time to think, and because of that I now fully understand the direction I want this book to take.
Things might look a bit messy right now, but trust me — it will all come together. I kept this chapter short to avoid too much foreshadowing or an info dump.
Please bear with me for a bit, and thank you for the continued support.