Gabriel stopped right in front of Austen. His towering frame cast a heavy, suffocating shadow over the actor. Austen's knees buckled slightly, his legs trembling under the sheer weight of Gabriel's presence.

Gabriel didn't waste a single word. He pulled his right arm back and drove his fist forward.

The punch cut through the air with a vicious swoosh. His knuckles connected dead center with Austen's stomach.

A sickening, hollow thud echoed across the balcony. Austen let out a strangled, agonizing grunt. His eyes bulged out of his head, and his body folded in half like a snapped twig.

The sheer force of the blow lifted Austen off his feet for a fraction of a second before he stumbled backward. He collapsed onto the hard marble floor, clutching his stomach, his mouth wide open as he violently dry-heaved.

Evelyn screamed, scrambling backward until her back hit the glass doors. She curled into a tight ball, terrified that Gabriel was going to hit her next.

Gabriel's face remained entirely blank. He didn't even look at Austen writhing on the ground. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fresh silk handkerchief, and meticulously wiped his knuckles. He rubbed the fabric over his skin as if he had just touched a disease.

When he was done, he dropped the expensive silk directly onto Austen's sweating face. The disrespect was absolute.

Alaia stared down at Austen. Seeing him broken on the floor offered a tiny fraction of relief to the burning hatred in her chest, but it wasn't nearly enough.

She walked over and stood over him. She looked down, her voice terrifyingly calm and steady.

"That was just the interest," Alaia said softly.

She pointed a finger at Austen, then shifted it to Evelyn. "I swear to God, I will strip you both of everything. Your reputations, your money, your careers. You will have nothing left, and you will never recover."

Austen groaned, unable to speak. He glared up at her, his eyes filled with toxic venom. Evelyn just kept shivering in the corner.

Alaia had said what she needed to say. She turned her back on them.

A sudden gust of autumn wind swept across the balcony. The thin silk of her red dress offered no protection against the chill. Alaia's shoulders involuntarily shivered.

Suddenly, a heavy weight dropped onto her shoulders. The rich, masculine scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne wrapped around her senses.

Alaia gasped and turned her head. Gabriel had picked up his suit jacket and draped it over her.

The fabric still held the heat of his body. The oversized jacket swallowed her frame, wrapping her in an aggressively dominant, yet completely secure, cocoon.

Gabriel didn't look at her. He casually adjusted his pristine cuffs.

"There are cameras out there," Gabriel said, his voice flat and commanding. "Don't walk out looking like a discarded victim."

Alaia froze for a second. Then, a genuine, sharp smile touched her lips. She reached up and pulled the lapels of the heavy jacket tighter around her chest.

She didn't say thank you. She just gave him a single, respectful nod. She turned and walked toward the glass doors, her heels clicking with absolute authority.

She pushed the doors open. The banquet hall was still packed. Hundreds of eyes snapped toward her. But this time, there were no smirks. No pity.

When they saw who was walking mere inches behind her, the chaotic whispers instantly morphed into collective gasps of pure shock. It wasn't just that the heavy, oversized suit jacket draped over her shoulders was clearly a man's-it was that Gabriel Alvarado himself was acting as her silent, invincible shield. His terrifying, predatory aura cleared the path before them, and no one needed to guess whose bespoke jacket she was wearing. The ownership was undeniable. Alaia walked through the crowd like a queen inspecting her territory. She ignored the stares, keeping her chin high as she marched straight toward the hotel exit.

Gabriel walked a few paces behind her. He moved with a slow, predatory grace, acting as her silent, invincible shield. The crowd instinctively parted, terrified of getting too close to him.

Alaia pushed through the hotel's front doors. The crisp Los Angeles night air hit her face.

The driveway was a war zone. Dozens of paparazzi had swarmed the entrance, blocking the stairs.

Blinding white flashes erupted like strobe lights. Microphones were shoved aggressively toward her face. Reporters screamed questions about the video, their voices overlapping in a chaotic roar.

Alaia didn't flinch. She stopped at the top of the stairs and swept her cold gaze over the mob. The sheer intensity in her eyes made the front row of reporters fall silent for a split second.

Before they could surge forward again, the screech of heavy tires ripped through the night. Four massive, black Cadillac Escalades slammed on their brakes, blocking the driveway.

A dozen men in black suits with earpieces poured out of the SUVs. They moved with military precision, shoving the paparazzi back, physically ripping a clear path through the mob.

Mitch Donovan, Gabriel's personal driver, stepped out of the center Maybach and respectfully pulled open the rear door.

Gabriel walked past Alaia, stopping right beside the open car door. He turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto hers.

"Get in," he ordered. Two words. Absolute authority.

Under the blinding flashes of a hundred cameras, Alaia ducked her head and slid into the backseat of the Maybach, stepping right into the center of Gabriel's world.

The heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut, instantly killing the chaotic noise of the paparazzi. The dark, bulletproof windows completely isolated them from the flashing lights outside.

The car glided away from the curb, moving with silent, terrifying power.

The interior was massive. Alaia leaned back against the plush leather seat. The adrenaline that had been keeping her upright started to fade, and the sharp, throbbing pain in her lower back flared up again. She shifted uncomfortably, her brow furrowing.

Gabriel sat next to her. He reached for the crystal decanter in the built-in console and poured two glasses of bourbon. He slid one across the small, polished table toward her.

Alaia didn't hesitate. She picked up the heavy crystal glass and took a sip. The liquid fire burned down her throat, chasing away the lingering chill in her bones.

Gabriel swirled his glass. The ice clinked sharply in the quiet cabin. He turned his head, his piercing eyes scanning her face.

"The angle of that video was flawless," Gabriel said, his voice a low rumble. "Almost like a perfectly executed assassination. Did you set the camera?"

Alaia met his gaze. She didn't blink. "Doesn't Mr. Alvarado appreciate an early escape from a bad investment?"

Gabriel let out a short, dark laugh. The sound was dangerous. "I do. But I don't like being played for a fool."

He leaned closer. The physical distance between them vanished. His broad shoulders blocked out the dim streetlights passing by the window. The sheer dominance rolling off his body made Alaia's fingers tighten around her glass.

"Using me as your shield comes with a price," Gabriel warned, his voice dropping an octave. "I don't do charity."

Alaia didn't shrink back. She met his intensity head-on.

"It's a trade," Alaia said, her voice steady. "I will completely annihilate Austen's public image. You will slaughter the Montgomery family in the market."

She leaned in slightly, her eyes locking onto his. "I overheard Austen and his father panicking in his study a few months ago. They were terrified because you've been circling their theater chains like a starving wolf for two years, planning a hostile takeover. This scandal is the perfect catalyst to tank their stock. I just handed the wolf a very sharp knife."

Gabriel's eyes darkened. The casual amusement vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp calculation. He hadn't expected this actress to know anything about his corporate war room.

He lifted his glass and tapped it against hers. Clink.

"Deal," he murmured. The devil's bargain was struck.

Alaia pulled back and set her glass down. She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. The screen was a chaotic mess of notifications.

Austen's PR team was already moving. They had flooded Twitter with statements claiming the video was a deepfake, an AI-generated smear campaign.

Simultaneously, thousands of bot accounts and rabid fans were swarming Alaia's mentions, calling her a manipulative bitch who set Austen up because she was jealous of his success.

Alaia stared at the screen, a cold sneer twisting her lips. In her past life, this exact type of cyberbullying had driven her to a breakdown. Tonight, she was going to make them bleed.

She opened her camera app. She didn't fix her hair. She didn't wipe the smudged mascara from her fake crying. She held the phone up and snapped a raw, unfiltered selfie.

She deliberately angled the camera so the distinct, custom lapel of Gabriel's suit jacket was clearly visible draped over her shoulder.

She opened X and attached the photo. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard, typing a single, lethal sentence.

Yes, I was cheated on. The video is real. My heart is broken, but my eyes are finally open.

She hit post. The tweet launched into the digital war zone without a single PR filter.

Within sixty seconds, the retweet counter exploded past one hundred thousand. The raw emotion in her face, combined with her direct confirmation, instantly crushed Austen's "AI deepfake" defense.

Gabriel watched her thumbs fly across the screen. He raised an eyebrow. "You're a natural manipulator."

Alaia didn't look up from her screen. "When you're dealing with scum, you have to hit them harder and faster than they can breathe."

Suddenly, her phone screen changed. An incoming call popped up. It was Austen's manager. They were trying to buy her silence.

Alaia's thumb hovered over the red button. She pressed decline, then immediately blocked the number. She was severing every single tie to her past weakness.

The cabin fell silent again, save for the rapid, continuous buzzing of her phone as the internet tore Austen apart.

The Maybach smoothly decelerated. Mitch's voice came through the intercom.

"We've arrived at Ms. Dudley's apartment in West Hollywood, sir."

Alaia reached up to pull Gabriel's heavy suit jacket off her shoulders, intending to hand it back.

Gabriel's large hand shot out, his fingers brushing against her wrist. He pushed her hand down.

"Keep it," Gabriel said, his eyes locking onto hers in the dim light. "The wind is cold. Consider it a down payment on our partnership."

Alaia didn't argue. She nodded once. "Thank you."

She pushed the heavy car door open and stepped out onto the pavement. She walked through the revolving glass doors of her apartment building without looking back.

Gabriel sat in the dark cabin, watching her straight, unyielding posture until she disappeared into the lobby. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "Drive," he ordered Mitch.

Alaia rode the elevator to her empty penthouse. She kicked off her stilettos, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. A wave of exhaustion washed over her, but her mind was buzzing with adrenaline.

She didn't turn on the overhead lights. She walked straight to the living room, bathed only in the glow of a single floor lamp, and booted up her high-end desktop computer.

The blue light of the monitor illuminated her pale, focused face. Before she could even open a single browser tab, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed from her front door. Alaia stiffened. She walked cautiously to the entryway and checked the security monitor. Standing in the hallway was Mitch Donovan, Gabriel's personal driver. She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open just a fraction. Mitch bowed slightly, holding out a small, black velvet box. "Mr. Alvarado requested I deliver this to you, Ms. Dudley. He said it is the necessary collateral for your new partnership." Alaia took the box, her brow furrowing in confusion. As Mitch turned and strode toward the elevator, she slowly opened the lid. Inside rested a massive, heavy black obsidian signet ring-the undeniable Alvarado family crest. A shiver of pure, terrifying adrenaline shot down her spine. Gabriel wasn't just agreeing to a deal; he was branding her as his territory. She closed the box, setting it carefully beside her keyboard. She logged into her burner accounts and surveyed the battlefield.

Austen's most extreme fan groups, GossipFerret and KeepYourDistance, were organizing a massive counterattack. They were flooding the hashtags, claiming the man in the video was a body double. They even posted a forged call sheet proving Austen was in a production meeting all night.

Alaia let out a dark chuckle. She opened a hidden cloud drive filled with thousands of intimate photos she had taken of Austen over the years.

She used a burner account to post a side-by-side comparison. She zoomed in on a microscopic mole on the back of the man's ear in the video, matching it perfectly to a high-definition red carpet photo of Austen.

The post went viral in minutes. The "body double" theory was instantly shattered. The comments section turned into a bloodbath of mockery against the delusional fans.

Then, a massive fan account named AustensFutureWife tagged Alaia directly: You were always so controlling! You suffocated him! If he cheated, it's because you drove him to it!

The victim-blaming ignited a hot, violent rage in Alaia's chest. She switched back to her main verified account with ten million followers.

She quote-tweeted the fan. Controlling? Do you mean when I hid his fake depression diagnosis for three years to save his brand? Or when I paid off the financial hole he dug in his last production?

The tweet was a nuclear bomb. It didn't just expose his fake persona; it tipped off the financial media that Austen was broke.

The fan account panicked, deleted the tweet, and deactivated within seconds. The fan base began to fracture and collapse in real-time.

Another troll, AlwaysRight, tried to pivot the attack. Look at the jacket in her selfie! She's already sleeping with someone else! She's just as dirty!

Alaia's fingers hammered the keys. That jacket belongs to a gentleman who lent it to me when I was freezing. Unlike some people, he doesn't use his fiancée as a stepping stone.

She didn't name Evelyn, but the internet was fast. Within minutes, sleuths connected the dots, and Evelyn's secret engagement became the new trending topic.

Every time Alaia hit the enter key, another piece of Austen's life was destroyed. She leaked screenshots of him texting other actresses. The brands that sponsored him began pulling his ads from their websites in a panic.

She watched his follower count plummet by the tens of thousands every second. The sweet, intoxicating taste of vengeance coated her tongue.

She was just about to draft a tweet hinting at his tax evasion when the sharp, piercing sound of her apartment doorbell rang out.

It was 2:00 AM.

Alaia's hands froze over the keyboard. No one friendly visits at 2:00 AM.

She stood up silently. She grabbed a sharp, metal letter opener from her desk and gripped it tight. She crept toward the front door, her bare feet making zero noise.

She pressed her eye against the peephole.

It wasn't Austen. It wasn't a crazed fan.

Standing in the hallway was a middle-aged man in a stiff, three-piece suit. Two massive bodyguards stood behind him.

It was her estranged father's chief assistant.

The man looked directly into the doorbell camera. His voice was arrogant and demanding. "Ms. Dudley. Open the door. Mr. Darrius Dudley wishes to see you."