Sloane dragged herself from the living room couch.

The heavy rock music had faded hours ago. Bright, harsh sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, hitting her directly in the eyes.

She walked into the bedroom, her muscles slightly stiff from sleeping on the leather sofa.

She found a cheap burner phone tucked away in a drawer, a pathetic last resort the old Sloane had bought, hoping he might one day use it to contact her secretly. Pathetic. She had long since left it behind.

Suddenly, the cheap, plastic backup burner phone started ringing. The screen lit up with an unknown number.

Sloane groaned. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, picked up the small device, and hit the green answer button without checking the caller ID.

"Delete that tweet right now."

Axel's voice barked through the tiny speaker. He sounded out of breath, his tone laced with a frantic, barely controlled rage.

Sloane's eyes snapped open.

The lingering sleepiness vanished instantly. A wicked, sharp smile formed on her lips. Her thumb moved quickly over the screen.

She tapped the home button, swiped to the utility folder, and activated the call recording application. A small red dot appeared at the top of the screen.

"I will blacklist you from every major studio in Hollywood," Axel threatened, his voice rising in pitch. "You think this is a game? I own half the production companies in this city. You are done, Sloane."

Sloane forced her breathing to hitch.

"Axel... please," she said, pitching her voice up to mimic the original host's pathetic, trembling tone. "Are you really going to ruin me over a picture?"

Axel let out a harsh, arrogant scoff.

"Ruin you? I made you," he sneered, the arrogance dripping from every word. "I own the media. You are nothing but a cheap accessory I got tired of wearing. You will issue a public apology in ten minutes claiming your account was hacked, or I will make sure you never work again."

Sloane dropped the fake crying act instantly.

She let out a loud, sharp, mocking laugh. The sound was bright and completely devoid of fear.

"You know, Axel," Sloane said, her voice dropping to a cool, deadpan drawl. "For a billionaire CEO, your ego is more fragile than cheap glass."

Axel froze.

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. He was clearly shocked by the sudden, whiplash-inducing shift in her tone.

"What did you just say to me?" Axel whispered, his voice shaking.

Sloane didn't bother replying.

She pulled the phone away from her ear and hit the red end-call button mid-sentence, cutting off his angry sputtering entirely.

She immediately opened the recording app and exported the audio file to her laptop sitting on the bed.

Her fingers flew across the trackpad. She dragged the file into a basic audio editor. She quickly trimmed the dead air, highlighting only his threats of blacklisting, his claim of owning the media, and his blatant, disgusting arrogance about treating women like accessories.

Sloane opened her social media accounts on her laptop.

She uploaded the raw, unedited audio clip.

She typed a simple caption: "CEO or Mafia Boss? You decide."

She hit publish.

Within minutes, the audio went viral. The internet, already primed by the meme from the night before, exploded. Industry watchdogs, feminist groups, and furious fans flooded the comment section, sparking massive outrage.

Sloane opened a new tab and checked the stock market ticker.

Axel's tech company stock took a noticeable, sharp dip. A red arrow pointed downward as investors began to panic over the escalating PR disaster.

Thirty minutes later, Axel's PR team scrambled.

They released a hastily written, desperate statement on their official corporate page, claiming the audio was a malicious, AI-generated deepfake designed to extort him.

Sloane didn't even blink.

She took a screenshot of her burner phone's call logs, showing the exact duration and timestamp of the incoming call from his private number.

She replied directly to the PR team's statement with the screenshot.

No words. Just the evidence.

The internet turned entirely, viciously against Axel. The hashtag CancelAxelPrice trended globally. Users crowned Sloane the undisputed queen of receipts.

Sloane's laptop chimed.

Her agency, which had been ignoring her calls for weeks, sent a frantic, high-priority email begging her to stop posting and come into the office for damage control.

Sloane highlighted the email and hit delete.

She glanced at the clock. The reality show pickup was in two hours. No rest for the wicked, apparently. Fine. The chaos could come with her.

She walked over to her massive walk-in closet and pulled down a huge, hard-shell black suitcase. She threw it open on the floor.

She began packing for the reality dating show she was contractually obligated to attend today.

She bypassed the pastel, innocent, floral dresses the original host loved. She left them piled on the floor. Instead, she tossed in heavy combat boots, ripped black denim, and vintage leather jackets.

Sloane zipped up the massive suitcase.

She slid a pair of dark, oversized aviator sunglasses onto her face, hiding her eyes completely.

She pulled out her phone, ordered an Uber Black, and walked out the door, the wheels of her suitcase clicking against the hardwood.

She stepped into the elevator, watching the numbers descend, fully ready to bring her specific brand of chaos to national television.