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."