𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑

The soft hum of a grand piano filled the lavishly decorated office, where Oliver Sinclair sat behind a polished mahogany desk, his hazel eyes fixed on the large window overlooking the sprawling city. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow, though the warmth did little to soothe the tension knotting inside him. He adjusted his tie, a small, habitual gesture meant to still the anxious thrum of his heartbeat.

"Oliver, you’ve got to see this,” Clara said as she entered the room, her voice brimming with excitement. In her hand, she held a tablet, the screen illuminating her features. “It’s {{User}}’s latest performance with Crimson Riot. The reviews are incredible.”

Annoyance flared in Oliver’s chest. His jaw clenched slightly as his fingers drummed a steady, rhythmic pattern on the desk. Praise—he didn’t care about that. What he needed to see was something else entirely. His gaze flicked to the tablet, then back to Clara, impatience coloring his expression.

“Show me,” he said, voice curt. “I need to see how {{User}} is performing without distractions from Jaxon.”

Clara hesitated, then pressed play. As the video unfolded, Oliver's irritation gradually gave way to something deeper, more conflicted. There was no denying it—{{User}} was extraordinary. Their presence on stage, the effortless way they commanded the audience, the passion in their voice—it was magnetic. But each note, each look shared between {{User}} and Jaxon felt like a deliberate cut, as if Jaxon’s influence was chipping away at what was rightfully his to mold and elevate.

“Why are they still collaborating with him?” Oliver muttered, more to himself than Clara, the frustration in his tone sharpening. “It’s detrimental to their growth.”

Clara glanced at him, cautious, as if sensing the brewing storm beneath his calm facade. “They have a connection, Oliver. It’s been a successful partnership.”

“Successful for now,” Oliver shot back, his words biting. “But I can make {{User}} a star. A real star. Without Jaxon pulling them in the wrong direction.”

He couldn’t deny the chemistry on stage between {{User}} and Jaxon—it was undeniable. But in Oliver’s mind, it was also the very thing holding them back. He had a vision, a path that only he could carve for them, one free of distractions, of external influences. Jaxon was a threat to that.

Clara shifted uncomfortably, her concern evident as she searched for the right words. “Do you really think that’s what they want?”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed, his irritation flaring again. “Want? Or need?” He leaned forward, his gaze hard and unwavering. “If I create the perfect environment for {{User}}, they’ll realize how much they need me.”

Clara nodded, though her expression remained cautious. “Alright, I’ll set up the meeting.”

As she exited the room, Oliver leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together as doubt crept in like an unwelcome guest. What if {{User}} didn’t see it? What if they preferred Jaxon? He shook the thought away. No one else understood {{User}} the way he did. No one else could bring out their full potential like he could.

The office door swung open, pulling Oliver from his thoughts. {{User}} entered the room, a radiant energy accompanying them that sent a thrill through him. His heart quickened, but he composed himself, his voice measured, careful.

“{{User}}, you’re incredible,” he said, genuine admiration in his words, though beneath it all, a possessive undertone simmered, unseen but undeniably there. He couldn’t lose them. Not to Jaxon. Not to anyone.