Zari shuffled through the papers again, scanning the numbers with a practiced eye, then looked up suddenly.
A glint sparked in her gaze, sharp and calculating—the one that had gotten them this far. "We need a hit."
Diana let out a dry, humorless laugh that scraped her throat. "Tell me something I don't know. A massive, career-saving, debt-erasing hit. Preferably one that drops tomorrow and goes viral by breakfast."
"Or…" Zari's smirk grew, slow and dangerous, like she'd been holding this card close to her chest.
Diana narrowed her eyes, suspicion rising. "Or what?"
Zari grabbed the tablet from the table, fingers flying across the screen as she navigated to something specific.
She spun it toward Diana with a flourish. "While you were busy drowning in self-pity, your social-media girl was working overtime posting the gala shots. Look."
Diana hesitated.
Social media still trickled in some affiliate money—enough for groceries some weeks—but her PR team had been crystal clear months ago: stay quiet, keep a low profile. Someone powerful in the industry wanted her invisible, and every post risked drawing the wrong kind of attention, the kind that could bury her deeper.
She glanced at the screen anyway. Professional red-carpet shots from tonight filled the feed—her in the midnight gown, smiling under the flashbulbs, looking every bit the star the world still pretended she was. Hundreds of thousands of likes already. Comments pouring in: fire emojis, heart eyes, fans begging for new music.
"And?" Diana asked, wary, sensing the trap.
"This," Zari tapped the glass emphatically, "is what brings sponsors back. The glow-up posts, the mystery, the 'she's still got it' narrative."
Diana frowned, not following. "What company would touch me right now? They're all terrified of whatever blacklist I'm on."
"Not that kind of sponsor, Dee," Zari groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. "God, you're dense sometimes. I mean the kind with private jets and influence that makes labels rewrite contracts."
Diana's face hardened as understanding dawned.
They'd danced around this before—late-night conversations after too much wine, Zari floating "options" that Diana had always shut down immediately. "No, Zari. Absolutely not."
"Diana—"
"No." Firmer this time, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "How many times do I have to say it? I'm not selling myself for a comeback."
Zari's eyes flashed, like she'd been waiting for the fight and was ready to swing. "Do you even know who ALG is? Properly?"
Diana sighed, rubbing her temples. "What is that, some new crypto thing? NFT drop for washed-up singers?"
Zari looked personally offended, clutching her chest in mock horror. "It's a who! Alexander Luigi Gian! The Duke!"
Oh the Duke.
Of course Diana had heard the name. Everyone in the industry had, even if they pretended not to.
The shadowy Italian-American tycoon who owned half the entertainment conglomerates—labels, streaming platforms, talent agencies, venues.
Careers rose or died by his whim.
He didn't attend public events; he didn't need to.
Half the acceptance speeches she'd watched tonight, from bright-eyed newcomers clutching trophies, had ended with a subtle nod or a whispered "thank you to The Duke" that the cameras never quite caught.
"I know who he is," Diana said flatly, crossing her arms. "And?"
"There's… an invitation," Zari said, voice dropping conspiratorially, as if the walls might be listening. "A private, informal meeting."
Diana barked out a humorless laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. "He's like what… fifty, Zari?"
"Forty-eight-ish," Zari corrected, waving a dismissive hand. "And have you seen him though? The man is disgustingly hot for his age. Those photos from the Monaco yacht last summer—silver fox vibes, but make it mafia prince."
"Age is still age," Diana shot back, stomach twisting. "And power differential is still power differential."
"At least hear the offer," Zari pushed, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "We're talking one night—dinner, conversation. No commitments."
"No." Diana shot to her feet, energy surging through her limbs like adrenaline. She snatched her phone and tablet from the table, clutching them to her chest as if they were armor. "I'm not a call girl, Zari. I won't trade my body for a record deal."
"It's not like that," Zari insisted, rising more slowly, hands raised in placation. "Women who get close to him don't just get money wired to their accounts. They get careers relaunched. Labels beg to sign them again. Tours booked. Radio play. He doesn't buy favors—he builds empires. Ask anyone who's been in his circle."
Diana's stomach churned harder.
She knew the rumors—whispers in green rooms, cryptic comments from mentors who'd "made it" after a mysterious hiatus.
Knew exactly what "getting close" meant.
And how impossible it was to walk away once you were in his orbit—bound by gratitude, obligation, or something darker.
"I said no." She headed for the hallway, bare feet padding quickly across the marble, needing distance.
"Where are you going?" Zari called after her, frustration creeping into her tone.
Diana paused at the threshold, glancing back with a brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm off to go figure out other important stuff."
Zari's brow furrowed. "Like what, Dee? What's more important right now?"
"Food," Diana shot back, the word laced with defiance. "I'm starving, I have no cook, and my pantry is empty."
She stormed off before Zari could reply.