The summons to Isabella’s ancestral home hung in the air between us, a promise of a battle to come. But that battle was on Saturday. It was currently Tuesday. And in the intervening days, I had another, more immediate war to win. Not a war of ancient bloodlines and shadowy traditions, but one of ideas, of art, and of respect.
Two days after my tense phone call with Isabella, I was on a private jet to Los Angeles, Damien by my side. He was silent for most of the flight, a thundercloud of protective fury barely contained beneath his immaculate suit. He wanted to march into Laurel Crown Pictures, announce his ownership, and demand fealty for me. I had insisted, gently but firmly, that he do the exact opposite.
“You walk in there as the new Chairman, and I’ll never know if they respect me or just fear you,” I had told him. “This is my world, Damien. Let me win them over on my own terms.”
