Zayden Vale sat in the massive corner lounge of his penthouse, shirt unbuttoned halfway, bare feet resting on the glass coffee table.
Sunlight poured through the panoramic windows, but he barely noticed.
He was too busy watching her.
Again.
His phone played the press conference footage for the fifth time.
Elara Blake.
Silver dress. Spine like steel. Gaze like daggers.
He watched the moment again—his smile… her glare.
His lips curled.
"Magnificent," he muttered.
Across from him, his head of PR, Jasmine, looked like she'd aged ten years overnight.
"Zayden, we have over seven million views in twelve hours," she said, pacing in front of him. "The internet has split itself in half. Half love her. The other half think she's terrifying."
"She is terrifying," he said with a smirk.
"This wasn't the plan," Jasmine snapped. "She was supposed to be elegant. Polite. Warm."
"She was herself," Zayden replied, sipping black coffee. "And the world can't stop watching."
Jasmine threw her tablet onto the sofa. "There are already threads asking if she'll file for divorce before the wedding even happens."
Zayden chuckled lowly, eyes still fixed on the screen.
The moment where Elara raised the mic, her voice crisp and fearless.
> "I'm not going to giggle or faint just because I'm standing beside a man with a perfect jawline and way too much money."
He laughed again, this time louder.
"She doesn't just push back," he murmured. "She knocks you over."
Jasmine blinked. "Zayden, I'm being serious. The board wants to know if this is damaging your image."
He finally looked away from the phone and raised an eyebrow. "Damaging?"
He tapped into the trending tab.
> #ElaraTheUnbothered
#GlareAndFlare
#ZaydenGotRoasted
#FoxMeetsFire
Fan edits. Art. Even a limited-edition mug that said "National Playboy? I think not."
"Does that look like damage to you?" he asked.
Jasmine opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Zayden stood, stretching lazily. "The world's obsessed with her. And you know what the best part is?"
He walked to the window, storm-grey eyes scanning the city below.
"She doesn't care."
Silence.
"She doesn't want my money. Doesn't want my fame. Doesn't even like me," he said, almost in awe. "She glared at me like I was gum on her heel… while wearing five thousand dollars of custom silk."
Jasmine sighed. "So what do you want me to do?"
Zayden turned around, smile sharp. "Send her something."
"Like what?"
He thought for a moment.
"Send her the mug."
Jasmine blinked. "The meme mug?"
"Yes. The one with her glare and 'National Playboy? I think not.' She'll love it."
Jasmine stared. "You want to troll your own fiancée."
Zayden smiled wider.
"I want to marry my own match."