Diana closed the tab, rubbing her eyes as if to erase the image.
But she couldn't stop.
She scrolled further, diving into the deeper web of speculation.
A Bloomberg profile detailed his business acumen:
"ALG specializes in silent takeovers, acquiring distressed assets and flipping them into goldmines. Competitors vanish overnight, absorbed into his conglomerate without fanfare. He's launched unknown artists into the stratosphere with a single phone call—securing prime-time slots, radio rotations, even Grammy nods through his network of influence."
Net worth: "undisclosed, but likely exceeds $21.4 billion," according to a recent estimate from a financial watchdog site.
His empire spanned music labels under umbrella companies, film studios that churned out blockbusters, tech startups disrupting streaming algorithms"
He didn't just invest; he orchestrated. A whisper here, a deal there, and careers were made or broken.
And then, the women.
The section Diana had been dreading but couldn't avoid.
Tabloid sites like TMZ and Page Six had archives dedicated to his "mysterious companions."
Always beautiful.
Always talented—actresses on the cusp of stardom, models transitioning to design empires, singers clawing their way out of obscurity.
Always broken off within a year—richer, more famous, and never speaking of him again.
NDAs, the rumors said, ironclad and enforced with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
One article from a gossip blog stood out: "The Duke's Darlings: A Pattern of Power and Patronage." It listed names—Elara, the indie actress who'd landed a Marvel role after being spotted on his arm at Cannes; Sophia Reyes, the fashion designer whose label exploded after a "private investment" from Gian's firm; even a pop singer, Mia Lennox, whose comeback album went platinum following a brief, hushed association. "These women don't just date Gian," the piece speculated. "They ally with him. But at what cost? Sources claim his 'arrangements' are as much business as pleasure—mutual benefits wrapped in luxury, with strings that pull tight."
Diana's stomach twisted as she doom scrolled further.
Why her, though?
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling where shadows danced from the city lights filtering through the blinds.
She knew, of course, how things worked with people like him—sourcing investments in upcoming prodigies, spotting potential in the overlooked, turning raw talent into polished commodities.
But she just couldn't understand exactly what he thought she could offer.
Her last hit was years ago; her brand was tarnished, her relevance fading.
Compared to those he'd favored—women with flawless pedigrees, international appeal, or untapped markets—she was lacking. Very lacking.
A has-been pop star with mounting debts and a stalled career. Did he see something she didn't?
Or was it simpler, more primal—did he just want to tally her off as one of the girls he's dominated, another conquest in his ledger of power plays?
Plus, she was scared.
Terrified, really. Of what this meant and how it would affect her career.
Would accepting his offer relaunch her, as Zari promised, or taint her forever? Whispers of "kept woman," "gold digger," "sold out"—she could already hear them echoing in comment sections and industry chatter.
It was just saddening to realize just how much she'd fallen, for him to actually reach out to her like this.
Probably thought she'd have no choice.
Because of course she doesn't.
The penthouse, Lumière, her team's loyalty—all hanging by a thread that his money could either sever or reinforce.
The door clicked softly.
Zari slipped in, her silhouette backlit by the hallway light, tablet glowing in her hand like a modern-day lantern.
She was still in her day clothes—jeans and a cropped sweater—her curls tied back in a ponytail, fatigue etching lines around her eyes.
Diana slammed the laptop shut like a teenager caught watching porn, the lid snapping with a sharp click. "Seems like I have no privacy in here as well," she said, her voice laced with mock irritation, though her heart wasn't in it.
Zari didn't miss a beat, climbing onto the bed without asking, settling cross-legged beside her. "No privacy none at all, babe. Not when you're holed up in here like a hermit researching God knows what." She glanced at the closed laptop knowingly. "Let me guess—stalking The Duke's Wikipedia page? Or did you go straight to the deep web for dirt?"
Diana managed a weak smile, shifting to make room. "Something like that. It's... overwhelming. The man's a ghost with a billion-dollar shadow."
Zari nodded, setting her tablet on the comforter between them. "Yeah, he's got that whole 'mysterious mogul' vibe down pat. But that's part of why his offers carry weight. People don't say no to ghosts—they're too afraid of what might haunt them if they do."
Diana pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them. "I found an old photo. From that fundraiser four years ago. I didn't even remember shaking his hand until tonight."
Zari's eyebrows shot up. "No way. What did he say? 'Bow before me, peasant'?"