Investing In Overlooked Women: I Get Cashback On Every Glow-Up

The art gallery was quiet, dimly lit, and completely isolated from the public—no paparazzi, no flashbulbs, just cold stone and silent marble.

I was standing in front of an abstract oil painting, my hands casually resting in my suit pockets, when the quiet click of heels echoed down the gallery floor. Fastine had arrived first, taking in the private gallery’s atmosphere like she owned the place.

She stopped right beside me, casting a glance at the canvas. ”A little late-period surrealism, Ethan? Bold choice, but it lacks structure—much like your strategy tonight.”

”Surrealism is all about perspective, Fastine,” I said smoothly, turning to face her. ”It only looks like chaos until you see the bigger picture.”

She offered a razor-sharp, confident smirk and extended her hand. ”Shall we?”

”Let’s,” I replied, shaking her hand firmly before leading the way to a pair of leather chairs set up in the center of the gallery floor, a classic wood-carved chessboard resting between them.

”So,” Fastine said, taking her seat and crossing her legs, her posture radiating pure corporate arrogance. ”Let’s lay the terms out. Quin Records wants Ruby’s publishing rights and exclusive management contract in exchange for us calling off our press machine and letting her career survive. Since I hold a controlling stake in Quin’s board, you’re talking to the only person who can actually make that deal happen.”

”Fair enough,” I said, sliding into the chair opposite her. But before she could touch a piece, I raised a hand slightly. ”One ground rule before we touch the board. Phones off, handed to your assistant.”

Fastine scoffed, pulling her phone from her purse. ”Afraid I’ll check my stock portfolio mid-game?”

”I like clean games,” I replied, handing my phone over to my own aide while looking straight at her personal assistant. ”And definitely no hint-dropping or whispering from the sidelines either. Pure strategy, one-on-one.”

Fastine waved her hand dismissively at her assistant. ”Step back to the entrance. Leave us.” The assistant bowed nervously and retreated far out of earshot near the gallery doors.

”Better,” I smiled, rolling my shoulders back as I looked down at the board. ”White moves first.”

I reached out, taking hold of my king’s pawn, and slid it forward to e4—opening the game with a classic, aggressive stance.

Fastine’s eyes lit up with a dangerous spark as she leaned over the board, completely locked into the match, utterly unaware that every second she spent staring at my pieces, the clock was ticking down to her label’s total destruction.

We traded moves in silence, the quiet click of wooden pieces echoing off the gallery’s high ceilings. Fastine was good—exceptionally good. She played with a aggressive, calculating style, trying to trap my knights and force me into defensive trades.

I played smoothly, maintaining an unreadable composure, keeping my moves steady while leading the conversation.

”Do you know I only started playing chess yesterday?” I asked nonchalantly, sliding a bishop into position.

Fastine let out a soft, arrogant chuckle without taking her eyes off the board. ”It shows. You’re playing far too casually for someone whose artist is on the verge of total blacklisting.”

In the background, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her PA nervously step forward, looking down at a buzzing phone. The assistant urgently tried to whisper, ”Ma’am—”

Fastine didn’t even turn around. She simply raised a single, sharp finger into the air, silencing her assistant completely. ”Not now. Can’t you see I’m winning?”

She reached out, moving her rook with a decisive flourish, a triumphant, razor-sharp smile breaking across her face.

”Isn’t this checkmate?” she purred, leaning back in her chair, looking at me as if she had just won the world. ”Your king has nowhere to run, Ethan. You tried to bluff, but you left yourself wide open.”

I looked down at the board, then slowly raised my eyes to meet hers. A cold, quiet smile spread across my lips.

”Did I?”

I reached out, picked up my queen, and placed her directly in the path of her bishop—a complete, undeniable queen sacrifice.

Fastine’s smile instantly froze. Her eyes darted frantically across the board, realizing too late that taking my queen exposed her entire back rank.

Before she could process the blunder, I reached forward, picked up a single, overlooked passed pawn from the edge of the board, and slid it forward one square directly into her king’s space.

”Checkmate,” I said softly.

Fastine stared at the board, her jaw subtly slackening, completely speechless.

”It’s always the little things we ignore that end up making the biggest impact,” I murmured, leaning back and casually buttoning my suit jacket as I stood up.

She swallowed hard, trying to regain her composure, though her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed down her dress. ”Nice game... very clever. But what about our negotiation? Quin Records takes 70% of Ruby’s publishing, you keep 30%, and we kill the PR smear campaign. That’s the deal, right?”

I stopped, looking down at her, and let out a soft, genuine laugh.

”You still don’t get it, do you, Fastine?” I said, my voice smooth and dangerously calm. ”I was never here to negotiate with you. I just needed your time.”

Before she could comprehend what I meant, her PA practically sprinted across the gallery floor, pale as a sheet, and thrust the buzzing phone directly into her hand.

”Ma’am! You need to look at this right now!” the assistant stammered.

Fastine snatched the phone, her eyes scanning the screen. Within three seconds, every ounce of color drained completely from her face.

”You bastard,” she hissed, her voice shaking with raw, unadulterated fury as she stared at the screen.

The PR campaign Quin Records had just blasted across every major news outlet—claiming Ruby’s performance was nothing more than ”studio magic” and ”over-edited venue tricks”—had just backfired into the single biggest industry scandal of the year.

Right on schedule, while Fastine was completely locked in our chess match with her phone out of reach, Chloe had hit the switch. We dropped the raw, unedited, soundboard-direct live recording onto every single major streaming platform worldwide.

The internet was currently tearing Quin Records to shreds.

Music critics, audiophiles, and millions of fans were listening to the crystal-clear, uncorrected audio track, completely flabbergasted by Ruby’s sheer, untouched vocal power. Every single headline that Fastine’s team had just paid millions to publish now read like a desperate, malicious lie from a corrupt label terrified of an independent powerhouse.

”I told you, Fastine,” I said, slipping my hands casually into my suit pockets as I looked down at her pale, trembling frame. ”It’s always the little things you ignore.”

Her knuckles turned white as she squeezed the phone, her eyes practically burning holes through me. ”You... you planned this whole thing! The takedowns, the chess game... you set us up!”

”You set yourself up,” I replied smoothly, leaning in just close enough for only her to hear. ”You bought a trophy for an artist who can’t sing live, lied to the public to cover your tracks, and gave me forty-five uninterrupted minutes to drop a masterpiece right over your head. Checkmate, Fastine.”

Without giving her another second to speak, I turned on my heel and strolled out of the quiet gallery, leaving her standing alone among the marble statues, holding a phone that was exploding with panicked calls from Quin Records’ board of directors.

When I stepped outside into the cool night air, the tour bus was already idling at the curb. I climbed the steps, the doors hissing shut behind me.

The moment I walked into the lounge, Ruby leaped off the sofa, her phone in hand, showing the live streaming charts where her new single was already rocketing straight to number one.

”Ethan!” she cried out, her face beaming with absolute, unbridled triumph.