In a swanky Westfield steakhouse, Monica Vance, Vortex Media's cutthroat CEO, sealed a deal with Vanessa Steele and Greg Thornton, StarPulse Entertainment's disgraced exiles. Monica's pearl choker gleamed as she laid out her plan to crush Ethan Black, StarPulse's new $500M kingpin. "My assistant, Lena, briefed you, right?" Monica said, swirling her wine. "Join Vortex, and you're set—1.3 times your old StarPulse contracts."
Vanessa's eyes lit up. Her old TikTok deal with StarPulse was $10M; Monica's offer bumped it to $13M. Greg, demoted to Vanessa's handler, would see his $2M salary jump to $2.6M. "We're in," Vanessa blurted, visions of revenge dancing in her head. "Ethan humiliated me. I'll do whatever."
Greg nodded, mopping his brow. "Same. Count me in, Monica."
Monica smirked. "Good. But there's a catch. Vanessa, you'll star in some… exposé videos. As StarPulse's ex-influencer, you'll claim Ethan's a creep—say he forced you to schmooze at shady VIP parties. You know, spicy stuff."
Vanessa blinked, confused. "Wait, he never did that. Like, he's intense, but not that gross."
"Doesn't matter," Monica said, voice sharp as her suit. "You post, we amplify. My new friend—a Westfield tycoon worth $5B—will push it viral. Ethan's rep will tank, and StarPulse's stock will crash." She leaned back, smug. "We're not just hurting him. We're running StarPulse out of Westfield."
Greg gulped. "That's… defamation. Couldn't we get sued?"
Monica waved it off. "My tycoon's got lawyers scarier than a horror flick. Plus, Vanessa's 8M followers will eat it up. By the time Ethan fights back, StarPulse will be MySpace 2.0."
Vanessa hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. I'll do it. But my old TikTok's locked—StarPulse owns it."
"No problem," Monica said. "Start fresh on Twitch. Competition's softer there. Go live tomorrow—build a new fanbase, then drop the videos. If Twitch flops, we'll pivot to YouTube." She slid contracts across the table. "Sign tonight, and you're Vortex stars."
Vanessa and Greg scribbled their names, sealing their betrayal. Monica's smile was pure shark. "Welcome to the team. Ethan won't know what hit him." Outside, the black SUV's driver muttered into an earpiece: "Vortex assets acquired. Misinformation campaign greenlit." The Syndicate's plan was rolling, and Ethan was the target.
Meanwhile, at Ethan's Westfield villa, the $15B NovaVibe challenge and Avery Brooks' pop star arc were on hold for a more pressing issue: dinner. Ethan scrolled DoorDash, muttering, "Pizza or sushi? Why's this harder than running StarPulse?" His empire included PrimeBite and NewWest Plaza, but cooking? Not his game.
Knock knock. Ethan opened his villa's door to find Maya Quinn, his stunning neighbor and tech-genius ally. In a leather jacket and jeans, she radiated boss energy, her smirk promising trouble. "Hey, billionaire," she teased. "Saved my cat last month, remember? I owe you. Dinner at my place—homemade, not takeout. You in?"
Ethan grinned, stomach growling. "Homemade? You're speaking my language. Let me grab my phone." Maya's invite was perfect—better than another night of instant ramen, and her intel on the Syndicate made her a key player in his game.
At Maya's villa, a sleek modern pad with skyline views, Ethan kicked back in the living room, tossing a toy for Maya's cat, Pixel. The cat, now Ethan's biggest fan post-rescue, pounced like a furry ninja. Maya, in the kitchen, prepped a spread—steak, roasted veggies, and a salad that screamed "I'm secretly a chef." She'd planned this to repay Ethan, squeezing it in after a brutal week at her AI startup.
Half an hour later, Maya emerged, apron on, hair in a messy bun, carrying plates like a pro. "Four dishes, one soup," she said, winking. "Don't expect Michelin, but it's better than your sad microwave burritos." Ethan laughed, helping set the table. Maya popped a bottle of Napa Valley red, pouring two glasses. "To debts paid," she toasted.
They dug in, chatting about Westfield's tech scene and Ethan's StarPulse takeover. Maya, who'd warned Ethan about the Syndicate, dropped a hint: "Heard Vortex Media's making moves. Their CEO's cozying up to some shady investors. Watch your back."
Ethan nodded, filing it away. The game's NewWest Targeted alert echoed her words. But before he could probe, Maya handed him a bowl of soup—and fumbled. The bowl tipped, splashing Ethan's shirt. "Oh, crap!" Maya gasped, grabbing napkins. "I'm so sorry!"
"No biggie," Ethan said, laughing as she dabbed at his chest. "It's cold, not lava. My shirt's survived worse—like Jake Riley's ego."
Maya snorted, still wiping. "You're too chill for a billionaire." Their hands brushed, and the air sparked—until the front door clicked open.
Maya's parents, Helen and Tom Quinn, strolled in, arms full of grocery bags. They froze, spotting Maya practically in Ethan's lap, napkins flying. Helen's eyes widened. "Maya, what's… this?"
Tom, a burly ex-cop, raised a brow. "We interrupting something, kiddo?"
Maya leapt back, face redder than the wine. "Mom, Dad, chill! It's not what it looks like!" She waved her hands like a sitcom character. "This is Ethan, my neighbor. Soup accident, not a rom-com scene!"
Ethan stood, offering a hand. "Ethan Black, nice to meet you. Just here for Maya's killer cooking, not… uh, whatever this looks like." He grinned, but Helen's stare was pure Meet the Parents energy.
"Neighbor, huh?" Tom said, sizing Ethan up. "You look familiar. Wait… aren't you that kid who bought NewWest Plaza? Saw you on X, trending with some Ferrari hashtag."
Ethan nodded, unfazed. "That's me. Just trying to eat dinner without wearing it." Maya groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Guys, stop grilling him. He's cool, I swear."
Helen softened, but her smirk said she wasn't convinced. "Well, Ethan, stick around. Maya doesn't cook for just anyone." She nudged Tom, who muttered, "Better not be a player, kid."
As they sat to eat, Ethan's phone buzzed:
[Syndicate Alert: Vortex Media Launching Smear Campaign. Target: You. Counter Within 48 Hours.]
Ethan's jaw tightened. Monica's plot was live, and Vanessa's videos were coming. With Maya's parents eyeing him like hawks and the Syndicate closing in, Ethan knew one thing: dinner was just the warm-up. The real fight was about to start.