…
"Mr. Stark!"
"Excuse me, Mr. Stark!"
"I'm Christine Everhart from Vanity Fair. May I ask you a few questions?"
The female reporter, Christine Everhart, was stopped at the perimeter by two tall, broad-shouldered bodyguards in black suits and sunglasses. Since she had called out only "Mr. Stark," it was unclear whether she meant Tony or Leon.
At least Leon assumed she meant him.
Tony had already slipped into the limousine, while Leon—an arm still around the model from earlier—was just about to follow. Happy Hogan gave Christine a quick once-over and murmured to the brothers:
"Not bad."
"Really?" ×2
Tony and Leon perked up at the same time—but Leon had the positional advantage.
Without hesitation, he gently but firmly handed the model—whom he hadn't yet "properly gotten to know"—into Tony's arms.
"She's yours, big bro."
"You little—" Tony laughed, wrapping an arm around the model's slim waist. He signaled Happy to drive off first, just in case the reporter had been looking for him rather than Leon.
Before the car pulled away, Tony added, "Have your fun, but be safe. Don't cause any headlines. I'm flying out tonight."
Leon grinned and nodded.
Watching the limousine disappear, he turned to the bodyguards.
"Let her through."
With their employer's permission, they stepped aside.
"Lovely night, isn't it?" Christine approached with a polished, professional smile, glancing briefly at the departing car before focusing on Leon.
"If you stood out here in the cold all night just to ask that," Leon replied lightly, "I'm afraid we don't have much to talk about."
He lifted a hand as if to dismiss her.
Christine immediately dropped the flirtatious tone and seized the opportunity.
"Mr. Leon Stark, some people call your brother the modern-day Leonardo da Vinci. What do you think of that?"
"Ridiculous. He doesn't paint."
Leon smirked. "Unless you're talking about abstract splatter—then sure, Tony's a master."
"But clearly, I'm more deserving of the 'Da Vinci' title."
Christine's lips twitched. "And what about Tony's other nickname—'the Merchant of Death'?"
"Cool."
Leon gave a low whistle and tilted his head, openly and unapologetically letting his gaze roam.
Despite the chilly breeze, Christine's white blouse had a button undone at the collar. Whether intentional or not, Leon found it noteworthy.
"Let me guess—you went to Brown?"
"Mhm." Christine lifted her chin slightly, proud.
"Thought so. Only a place famous for independence and rebellion could produce someone as sharp-tongued as you."
His tone carried a trace of irony before turning measured.
"Miss Everhart, the world isn't perfect. But we don't get to opt out. We do our best, from wherever we stand, to shape it into something better."
"The day weapons are no longer needed to preserve peace, I'll personally convince Tony to build children's hospitals instead."
"You've rehearsed that speech, haven't you?" Christine shot back.
"Of course," Leon admitted easily. "I practice in the mirror every night before bed."
"That shows."
He shrugged. "Care to come over and see how I practice?"
Christine maintained her professional smile. "Could you answer seriously, please?"
"Fine."
Leon's expression shifted.
"There's an old saying: 'There's a difference between having a sword and choosing not to draw it.'"
"Weapons aren't created to take lives. They demonstrate strength—to deter those who would start wars."
"That deterrence protects civilians."
"And Stark Industries' advanced weapons systems do exactly that."
Christine clearly wasn't convinced. "That sounds like self-justification."
"No. It's reality."
"My father helped defeat the Nazis. He contributed to the Manhattan Project. Many—including your professors—call him a hero."
"Others say he profited from war," Christine countered.
Leon laughed softly. "Then why not report on how our medical technology has saved millions? Or how our agricultural innovations helped combat famine?"
"Those projects were funded by the Department of Defense too, honey."
"Wow…" Christine faltered for a moment before rallying. "At the end of the day, selling weapons is selling war. You profit from it. Doesn't that ever keep you up at night?"
"Not at all," Leon replied lightly. "Though I wouldn't mind losing sleep for you."
There was something dangerously sincere about the way he looked at her. Even prepared as she was, Christine found herself momentarily disarmed.
…
On the drive back, sparks flew.
Leon was still behind the wheel, but Christine had clearly abandoned all professional distance. Even someone as experienced as Leon found it hard to keep his focus steady.
Fortunately, Tony had long anticipated such situations and installed a subroutine of J.A.R.V.I.S. in Leon's sports car to assist with driving.
J.A.R.V.I.S.—Tony's AI system, named after Howard Stark's old butler—handled the task with ease.
They arrived home without incident.
What followed was enough to ensure neither of them would get much sleep.
…
The next morning—
Christine awoke glowing, while Leon remained fast asleep, thoroughly exhausted.
Her fingers traced his sharply defined features, and she smiled in satisfaction before pressing a light kiss to his cheek.
Though she hadn't succeeded in getting close to Tony Stark as originally planned, she reconsidered.
Leon Stark might be the better investment.
Compared to the sharp, calculating Tony, Leon—famous for his playboy reputation—seemed far easier to manipulate.
Imagining herself as the future mistress of Stark Industries, Christine slipped from the bed, draped in a sheet, and wandered barefoot through the cliffside Malibu mansion.
The home was a showcase of bleeding-edge technology—devices rarely seen by the outside world scattered everywhere, making it feel like a glimpse into the future.
Eventually, she reached a cylindrical elevator that appeared to lead underground. Curious, she pressed the down button.
"ERROR."
"You do not have clearance to access this area, Miss Everhart."
A calm male voice echoed around her.
Christine jumped.
Before AI assistants were commonplace, the disembodied voice was genuinely startling.
"That's J.A.R.V.I.S.," came a warm female voice from behind her. "He manages the house."
Christine turned.
Standing there was a poised, professional woman in a tailored business suit, blonde hair pulled back neatly into a short ponytail.
Pepper Potts.
"I've had your clothes dry-cleaned and pressed," Pepper said calmly, holding them out. "There's a car waiting outside. It can take you anywhere you'd like."
"You must be Miss Pepper Potts."
"That's right."
Christine accepted the clothes—and changed without hesitation, as if to make a point.
"After all these years working for Tony and Leon, they still have you doing laundry?"
Pepper only smiled faintly.
"I handle whatever Mr. Stark requires. He's my employer."
"And Leon is like a younger brother to me—even if I'm technically younger."
"Occasionally taking out the trash he leaves behind is within my job description."
"Was there anything else, Miss Everhart?"
Her smile never faltered.
Christine stiffened.
With Pepper standing guard, lingering would only invite humiliation. Better to retreat for now—and return once she had Leon firmly in hand.
At that point—
Pepper Potts would be nothing more than an employee.
Never mock a young woman's poverty.