With only an hour left until the concert began, every trending topic across the internet was dominated by a single headline.

[Breaking: Rising Star Tiffany Burgess to Propose to Her Manager After Ten Years of Romance, Leaving Fans in Awe.]

This proposal was not just a personal milestone; it was the centerpiece of our company's most ambitious PR campaign of the year and the culmination of a love story between Tiffany and me.

Then, in the fire escape, I bumped into Tiffany, dressed in her wedding gown, locked in a passionate kiss with a young man.

"Wayne, let me explain," she pleaded.

"Explain what?" I snorted. "That just before our proposal, you're sneaking around with another man? The proposal is live-streamed to millions, with thousands of media outlets eagerly awaiting the announcement."

I slammed the engagement ring down onto the table in front of her. "After the encore tonight, you'll either propose to me on that stage, or you'll be ruined, both in reputation and career!"

Her fists clenched, but in the end, she gritted her teeth and grabbed the box. "Fine."

Under the spotlight, she stood before me in her wedding dress, pulling out the ring. But instead of turning to me, she held the ring up toward the guest seating area, where her true love sat.

"Wayne, thank you for helping me reach the stars," she declared. "But tonight, I'm going to chase my moon."

The crowd erupted in shock and confusion. In a single instant, I became the laughingstock—the unwitting prop in her grand romantic gesture.

My heart shattered the moment she reached him.

...

"Mr. Sanford," called out my assistant, Luther, handing me the tablet. "You need to see this."

The screen was flooded with news about that night's concert. This proposal was supposed to be a dual victory for both our careers and our love life.

I had invested more than a hundred million dollars, secured partnerships with dozens of major brands, and orchestrated every detail. If Tiffany Burgess had proposed to me in front of her fans, the commercial value of our "power couple" image would have been incalculable.

Everything had been meticulously prepared and was ready to execute.

But now, photos of Tiffany and Pierre Hamm kissing on stage were being blown up everywhere, with headlines flashing across the screen: [Top Star Defies Capital for True Love.]

My stunned, humiliated exit had already been edited into countless mocking memes. Starry Media's stock value had plummeted by $3 billion overnight.

I scrolled through the reports with a face of stone until I reached Tiffany's freshly posted personal statement, in which she thanked the universe, except me and the company, defined our relationship as an unpleasant cooperation, and vowed to fight for her freedom at any cost.

"Freedom." I stared at the word, then laughed. "Tell the PR team to ignore it—no response, no explanation. Get the legal team ready to activate every punitive clause in her contract."

Luther was stunned. "Sir, shouldn't we release a statement to clarify? Public opinion is tearing us apart right now."

"Clarify?" I walked up to him and pointed at Tiffany's affectionate face on the screen. "There's nothing to clarify with a liar."

I rubbed my temples and sank onto the sofa. The past five years replayed in my mind like jagged film clips.

A young woman stood with a battered old guitar, singing an unknown folk song to a handful of people. Yet I heard something special in her voice and decided to give her a chance.

I hired her and set up a studio.

We started with absolutely nothing. To save money, we slept on the floor of a cramped office, survived on the cheapest food, and spent our nights dreaming aloud about the future.

"When I make it big, the first thing I'll do is marry you," she said.

"You'd better pay off the startup capital first," I joked.

She teased me for being practical, but her eyes were full of hope. To secure her a spot at a music festival, I drank round after round with investors until my stomach lining ruptured. I was rushed to the emergency room in the middle of the night.

When Tiffany arrived at the hospital, her eyes were red from crying. She clutched my hand and said, "I'll never let you suffer like this again."

I looked at her, feeling like everything was worth it. I thought we were soulmates and each other's only support, so I poured all my resources and energy into her ascent.

I taught her how to face the cameras with confidence, how to handle the media, and how to package herself as the perfect idol for her fans.

She absorbed it all quickly and soared to unimaginable heights. As she grew more popular, we moved into the most luxurious office building in the city center, and our studio became a full-fledged entertainment empire.

But somewhere along the way, our relationship started to change. She began to complain about my controlling nature, saying that I packed her schedule so tightly that she didn't have time to create, longing for what she called purity.

That was when Pierre Hamm, her junior from music school, entered the picture. He became the symbol of purity in her eyes.

One month before the concert, I finally confronted her. "We are partners in business and life. I don't want anything to jeopardize the foundation we've built together."

Sitting across from me, she stared at her phone, her tone dismissive. "You're overthinking it. Pierre is just a friend—someone I can talk about music with."

"I manage your music," I reminded her.

Her head snapped up, her eyes full of irritation and resistance. "It's different. That's a product. Commerce. With Pierre, I feel like a real human being, not just merchandise in your inventory."

That was the moment I realized she wasn't the girl who had fought beside me anymore. I had manufactured a star, and now that star believed she could exist independently.

I chose to let it slide, convinced that it was just her post-fame arrogance. I believed once the concert was over and our relationship was solidified with a grand proposal, everything would return to normal.

I was wrong. I had treated her like a predictable chess piece and overlooked the most uncontrollable thing in human nature—betrayal.

Without warning, the office door burst open.

Tiffany entered in dark sunglasses, a black cap, black hoodie—followed closely by Pierre. Luther shot to his feet in alarm and instinctively positioned himself between us.

"Give us the room," I said, my voice calm and unwavering as I looked at Tiffany.

Luther hesitated, giving me a concerned look before reluctantly stepping out and closing the door behind him.

The room now contained only the three of us, and the silence was thick enough to suffocate.

"What's your deal?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

Tiffany took off her sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes, though her expression remained unnervingly calm.

"I came to discuss the termination of our contract," she said, pulling Pierre to the sofa across from me.

She tossed a file onto the table and continued, "Let's part ways amicably. It's the best outcome for the company and you."

"Amicably?" I chuckled, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Are you seriously calling last night's carefully planned betrayal an amicable parting? You didn't just ruin a proposal. You ruined a billion-dollar business plan that was the cornerstone of our entire second-half strategy. You know that better than anyone."

She leaned back on the sofa, arms crossed. "Business. That's all that's ever on your mind. I'm tired of it. I'm not your personal cash machine."

Pierre spoke up. "Mr. Sanford, please don't blame Tiffany. This is all my fault, but we really love each other."

"Shut up!" I snapped, cutting him off with a cold glance. "This isn't your place to speak."

He shrank back in fear, but my outburst pushed Tiffany over the edge.

"You're insufferable! Always acting like the benevolent savior who rescued me from obscurity!" she snapped, jumping to her feet. "Every single day with you felt like suffocation. You sold your house. You drank yourself into the hospital, but none of it was truly for me. It was for your ambition and portfolio. I was simply your most profitable investment!"

Each word landed like a precise cut from a scalpel.

"So, five years of love was just an investment?" I countered. "I sat on the floor eating cheap food with you. Was that an investment? I stayed up all night outside the emergency room. Was that an investment?"

I locked eyes with her, asking the question that had been burning inside me. She was speechless, her eyes flickering.

I laughed, tears welling up in my eyes. "Tell me, Tiffany. What were the last five years to you?"

She paused, then her voice hardened with resolve. "Consider the debt repaid. Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you something."

She slung an arm around Pierre's shoulder and gently rested her hand on her flat belly. "I'm pregnant. I have to take responsibility for him and for our child."

Pregnancy. So that was it.

The final thread of my restraint snapped. I had poured my blood, sweat, and fortune into building their love nest and into nurturing the child that would never be mine.

That afternoon, I sat in my office and watched the projector screen as Tiffany's press conference began on schedule.

She looked noticeably thinner, her face pale and drawn, with dark circles under her reddened eyes. Pierre sat beside her, head bowed the entire time, projecting an image of fragile innocence.

"First, I want to apologize to everyone who has ever cared about me," she began, her voice hoarse as if she had been crying for hours.

She wove a tragic narrative about her pure love for music, how it had been drowned beneath a tidal wave of commercial pressures, and how Pierre had appeared like a beacon of light in her darkest hour.

She never once acknowledged the sacrifices I had made for her career. Instead, she referred to me only as her former agency and the shackles of capital, ignoring our five years together and the proposal.

"Yes, Wayne Sanford is an exceptionally talented businessman. He brought me to where I am today, and for that I'm grateful," she conceded, only to pivot immediately into victimhood. "But he controlled every aspect of my life—my work schedule, my social circle, even my thoughts. Who I could see, what I could say, what I could wear—everything required his approval. I was nothing more than his product. A soulless puppet."

Pierre looked up at the cameras and began to sob on cue. "It's not Mr. Sanford's fault. I never should have come between them. Tiffany, I'm so sorry."

Flashes from the photographers turned the press room into a strobe. Reporters hammered their shutters, and the livestream comments went wild.

[Tiffany has suffered too long. We won't let her be hurt again!]

[My heart breaks! She's been living under that kind of pressure!]

[Wayne Sanford is a monster. Get him out of the industry!]

[Full support for Tiffany going solo and making real music!]

She concluded by announcing she was opening her independent studio and cutting ties with my company.

"I'll make authentic music," she said. "It will be hard, but I have Pierre and our child. That's good enough."

The internet detonated, crowning me the ultimate villain.

Company phones rang nonstop. Several promising young artists I had mentored sent subtle messages through their agents, hinting at contract termination. They feared being tainted by association with "the tyrannical capitalist".

When the walls came down, everyone rushed to push.

My eyes were fixed on that hypocritical face on the screen. Nothing stirred in me but a slow, precise hatred. I wiped away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen and summoned Luther.

"Notify the legal team and all core staff," I said. "Conference Room One. Five minutes."

Luther looked troubled. "Sir..."

I gave him a smile that was all calm and steel. "Go notify them. Meet me there in five minutes. I'm going to bring her down the altar."