Chapter 66: Thirty Million Views

Mia sprinted through the conservatory’s underground parking structure, tossing her camera rig into the passenger seat of her Audi R8 V10.

She slammed her foot onto the accelerator, the naturally aspirated engine roaring as she tore out onto Columbus Avenue.

Attempting to chase a sixteen-hundred-horsepower Koenigsegg Jesko through midtown traffic was impossible.

By the time Mia navigated the gridlock around Central Park South, Jude’s matte-black hypercar had already vanished into the canyons of the financial district.

Cursing under her breath, Mia steered the R8 toward the southern tip of Manhattan, pulling into the private, gated subterranean entrance of the Obsidian Tower.

She swiped her titanium keycard at the security gate and descended into the executive parking bays. Her heart skipped a beat when her headlights illuminated Bay 01.

There it was...

The custom Jesko sat beneath the recessed halogen lights, its carbon-fiber panels ticking as the twin-turbo engine cooled.

"He’s here," Mia breathed, throwing her car into park.

She snatched her handbag and rushed toward the private elevator vestibule, only to stop dead in her tracks before the doors.

As a tenant of the seventy-fifth-floor luxury suites, Mia’s credentials granted her access strictly to her designated corridor and the common amenities.

Level 90, the sovereign, two-story duplex penthouse commanding the apex of the tower, belonged exclusively to Jude Lawson.

Without retinal authorization and an encrypted security bypass, the high-speed lift would not move a single millimeter upward.

"He isn’t going to live in his ivory tower forever," Mia muttered, walking back to her Audi and sliding into the seat. "He has meetings. He has dinner. I will sit in this garage until midnight if that’s what it takes."

***

Ninety stories above the subterranean garage, Jude stepped out of the private lift and into the soundproofed expanse of his personal sanctuary.

The duplex penthouse was an architectural marvel of volcanic stone, floor-to-ceiling glass, and minimalist Italian design.

It commanded a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama of the Atlantic harbor and the glittering Manhattan skyline.

Jude had chosen to return here rather than his uptown estate simply because the tower sat within immediate proximity to Lincoln Center, providing a convenient staging ground before his evening itinerary.

He tossed his keys onto a console just as his smartphone buzzed against his chest.

It was a formal dispatch from the board of the Metropolitan Philanthropic Foundation.

*Reminder: The Annual Sovereign Children’s Gala convenes tonight at 19:00 hours. Grand Ballroom, The Sovereign Plaza. Attendance mandatory for principal equity holders.*

Following his recent multi-billion-dollar market consolidations, Lawson Capital held a thirty-percent controlling stake in the Sovereign Plaza Hotel Group, making him the supreme commercial landlord of the very venue hosting the event.

He was under zero obligation to pander to society hostesses, but the gala served as an ideal operational backdrop to finalize several offshore banking covenants.

Jude dialed his private lifestyle liaison, Anna, who managed his domestic logistics through Lawson Capital’s private office.

"Mr. Lawson," Anna answered on the second ring.

"I require evening attire at the Obsidian residence," Jude instructed. "The Sovereign Gala begins at nineteen hundred. Procure a bespoke midnight-navy three-piece tuxedo, hand-finished silk lapels. Ensure delivery to Level 90 before eighteen-thirty."

"Understood, sir," Anna confirmed without hesitation. "I will personally dispatch the tailor from Savile Row’s Manhattan atelier immediately."

Jude terminated the call. He removed his jacket, draping it over a chair, and walked over to the Poltrona Frau leather sofa occupying the center of the lounge.

He closed his eyes.

While Jude rested, the digital infrastructure of the global entertainment industry was coming apart at the seams.

It began when a clipped recording from Mia Rowe’s livestream hit the feeds of TikTok and Twitter.

The video captured the moment Jude stood in the conservatory rotunda, his voice confirming without a shred of hesitation that he was the anonymous vocalist behind the viral *Ashen Embers* session.

Within ninety minutes, the clip had accumulated thirty million views!

The public discourse instantly exploded into an uncontrollable wildfire.

*That’s Jude Lawson! The billionaire who wiped out the Pierce dynasty and bought the Diamond District!*

*Is there a single industry this man doesn’t dominate?!*

Before the commentators could even process the conservatory footage, the second shockwave hit the wire.

Streaming platforms updated the master metadata for Nadia Cole’s breakout single, *Cinders of Glass*. The production credits were displayed in stark typography:

*Music & Orchestral Arrangement: Jude Lawson & Nadia Cole.*

*Executive Producer: Jude Lawson.*

Veteran Grammy board members, Billboard senior editors, and legacy studio executives took to social media in a state of collective shock.

"Someone find me his representation!" a panicked major-label president barked across an emergency boardroom meeting in Los Angeles. "Offer him fifty million upfront for an exclusive distribution catalog! I don’t care what it costs!"

Inside the executive offices of Windward Records, recently consolidated under Harper’s Apex Media umbrella, the senior director read the industry headlines and laughed until tears formed in his eyes.

"Fifty million?" the director chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Those West Coast idiots genuinely don’t read the financial journals. You can’t offer Jude Lawson fifty million dollars. The man literally acquired our entire parent company on an impulse buy."

The comment sections of the internet turned their insatiable curiosity toward Nadia Cole...

Rumors flared like wildfire across the tabloids: *Who is Nadia Cole to Jude Lawson? Is she his private muse? Did the Wall Street kingpin elevate an unknown indie singer to international stardom because of a secret romance?*

Down in the subterranean garage of the Obsidian Tower, Mia Rowe sat in the cockpit of her Audi R8, her eyes burning as she scrolled through the trending feeds on her phone.

Every single platform was pairing Jude’s photograph with Nadia Cole’s.

Tabloids were already crowning them the "Golden Power Couple of the Arts."

"A muse?" Mia scoffed. "She lives in a shoebox studio on the twenty-fourth floor! She wears oversized flannel and thrift-store sneakers! There is no universe where a billionaire like Jude Lawson chooses a starving artist over someone who actually understands the levers of high society!"

Mia’s breathing grew rapid.

She convinced herself that Jude’s gaze at the conservatory was a test... a challenge thrown down to see if she had the courage to step into his orbit.

Suddenly, the gate at the entrance of the garage rattled.

The silhouette of a white electric sedan glided down the ramp. Mia leaned forward in her red Audi R8, squinting through the windshield.

The sedan pulled into Bay 14, precisely 10 slots away from Jude’s Jesko.

The door opened, and Nadia Cole stepped out, clutching a folder with her new contract against her chest.

Ninety stories above, the sun finally dipped below the horizon.

In the master lounge of the penthouse, Jude Lawson’s eyes snapped open. His nap was over; the clock read precisely 18:30.

A chime sounded at the private elevator vestibule... his tuxedo had arrived.

Down in the parking garage, Nadia took a deep breath.

Living here had put her directly in Jude Lawson’s path: 10 minutes at her keyboard, cleaned-up chord progressions, and a $50 million distribution deal with Windward Records.

Watching the conservatory video that had leaked an hour ago had only deepened the mystery around him.

’I need to thank him properly,’ she thought.

"Well, look who made the charts."

Nadia turned. Mia Rowe was leaning against her Audi, a smile on her face.

"Mia," Nadia said, offering a nod. "Good evening."

"Quite a day for you," Mia said, hands in her pockets as she stepped forward. "Everyone in the industry is talking about that Windward deal. Big jump for someone without a catalog. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Nadia replied. "It still feels sudden."

"And our landlord is right there in the credits with you," Mia added, her fingers tightening inside her pockets. "Why didn’t you mention Lawson was producing your track when we talked by the mailboxes this morning?"

Nadia gave an awkward laugh. "I started to, but you spent 5 minutes telling me how arrogant and cold he was. You said he had zero interest in women and warned me to stay away from him, so I dropped it."

"Can you blame people for asking?" Mia pressed, looking closely at her. "The blogs are already running stories. Did he produce the track because you two are seeing each other?"

Nadia blinked, taken aback. "Seeing each other? No. We only met yesterday evening. He came by to introduce himself as the owner, and I offered him tea. He saw the sheet music on my piano, fixed the bridge, made a call, and Windward sent over the contract this morning. That was it."

Mia stared at her. Over a cup of tea, he handed her a $50 million contract?

"So nothing personal between you two?" Mia asked, keeping her tone light.

"Nothing at all," Nadia said, letting out a small breath. "He’s obviously attractive. But you said he doesn’t pay attention to women, so I didn’t think twice about it."

Mia moved quickly to keep that impression intact.

"You heard right," Mia said. "Men like Jude Lawson don’t mix personal life with business. If you cross a line, he’ll terminate your lease without a second thought. Take the record deal and leave it at that."

Nadia nodded. "Fair point. I’m heading up."

"Good idea," Mia said, stepping back.

Nadia walked toward the elevator bank, then noticed Mia hadn’t moved. "Aren’t you going up?"