Chapter 423

The studio lights blazed down as Serena Whitmore filmed the live broadcast of Spotlight Night. Everything had gone perfectly until the final Q&A segment.

A female guest leaned forward with genuine curiosity. "Serena, rumors say you recently acquired a screenplay. Are you venturing into production?"

Serena's practiced smile never wavered. "That was indeed my plan - to both produce and star in my passion project." Her expression turned solemn. "But the writing agency assigned me a plagiarist who stole from Vivian Hartley's personal blogs."

She exhaled softly, fingers tracing the edge of her champagne flute. "I value original artistry above all. No matter the financial loss, I refuse to compromise my principles."

"Vivian's work has always inspired me," Serena continued. "When this writer's sample mirrored her distinctive voice, I wanted to support new talent." Her lips tightened. "She claimed financial hardship, so I advanced sixty percent payment before seeing a completed draft."

Another guest nearly choked on her drink. "You prepaid sixty percent to an unknown writer?"

"The full contract was one million dor," Serena confirmed, her tone laced with quiet outrage. "For nothing but a three-page sample. I'll admit my literary knowledge is limited, which makes me respect true scholars even more. To think someone would exploit that admiration—"

The studio audience erupted. Even the veteran host looked shocked. "A million dor advance for an untested writer?" Social media exploded within seconds.

"I've written four produced screenplays and still get paid peanuts per episode! This is outrageous!" tweeted one industry insider.

"Stealing from Vivian Hartley? That's like forging Shakespeare's lost plays!" commented a verified author account.

"Never cared for Serena before, but this principled stand? Respect. Plastic surgery fixes faces but integrity's forever," read a viral post.

"Someone identify this fraud! The industry blacklist awaits!" demanded another trending tweet.

Meanwhile, in the shadowy parking garage beneath Dawson Enterprises, a supplier started his car after concluding business. As headlights cut through the gloom, he spotted a figure lurking between concrete pillars.

Natasha Dawson stood there in a microskirt that barely covered her thighs, the neckline of her top plunging dangerously low. Her toned legs gleamed under fluorescent lights. For a fleeting moment, the man thought of Vivian, but Adrian Blackwood's formidable reputation quickly dispelled that fantasy.

He rolled down his window with a greasy smile. "Ms. Dawson! What brings you down here? Need assistance?"

Natasha suppressed a shudder at his leer but forced a coquettish smile. She recognized him from family gatherings.

Leaning into his window, she positioned her cleavage at eye level. "You've visited our estate, haven't you?" she purred. "My accounts got frozen unexpectedly. Could you lend me twenty thousand? Father will reimburse you tonight."

Her fingers trailed along the car door as she waited, the scent of her expensive perfume filling the cramped space. The supplier's gaze dropped to her exposed thighs, his breathing noticeably quickening.

Natasha hid her disgust behind batting eyelashes. Every second of this charade made her skin crawl, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The money would buy her another week's escape from her crumbling life.

Somewhere above them, the city lights twinkled indifferently.