After My Breakup, I Made the Industry Bow

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."