The revolving doors of Royal Entertainment's headquarters hissed like vipers as Sophia stepped into the marble foyer, her Saint Laurent trench coat billowing behind her in a cloud of tuberose and impending chaos. Above the reception desk, a fifty-foot digital banner flickered—CAREER SPOTLIGHT'S MOST VIRAL MOMENTS!—its montage of her steakhouse takedown playing on loop beneath Isabella's saccharine makeup tutorials.
"Miss Sterling!" The CEO descended the helical staircase like a man fleeing a fire, his Zegna suit clinging to sweat-dampened shoulders. "Your contract renewal—let's discuss terms! A-list directors! Method acting coaches! A private island writers' retreat!"
Sophia paused beneath a hologram of her own smirking face projected beside the words Corporate Valkyrie Trends Globally. "Darling, I couldn't act my way out of a paper bag." She tapped the CEO's silk pocket square with a dagger-sharp nail. "Unless you want me playing 'Trophy Wife Turned War Criminal' in your next streaming flop, let's part ways before I sue you for emotional damages."
The lobby's ambient music screeched to a halt as Isabella's laughter rippled through the tension—a wind chime made of scalpels. Her entourage fanned out like a peacock's plumage: sycophantic stylists, a trigger-happy social media team, and Manager Wu, whose glare could curdle breastmilk.
"Still mooching off Mommy's fame, Soph?" Wu sneered, adjusting his earpiece like a Bond villain awaiting launch codes. "We've got analytics proving 83% of your viewers only watch to count your plastic surgeries."
Sophia didn't blink. "Isabella, muzzle your rabid Chihuahua before I stick him in a Gucci handbag and drop him at the pound."
Isabella floated forward, her ivory Rodarte gown swallowing the marble's reflection. "Don't be sour. Join my livestream? We're filming a romantic surprise even your cynical heart might enjoy." Her smile sharpened. "Unless you're scared of helicopters?"
As if cued by a sadistic stage director, Sophia's phone vibrated with a call from Yanchen Chen. His voice crackled through the speaker, tinny and strained: "There's a chopper en route to Royal Entertainment's rooftop. Paid courtship service—your mother's idea."
Sophia's grip tightened on her Birkin. "You hired a romance helicopter?"
"Not me." Yanchen's sigh carried the weight of dynastic expectations. "Apparently, Eleanor thinks midair proposals are 'on-brand' for our merger."
The pieces clicked into place with the precision of a guillotine's mechanism.
Two helicopters. One rooftop.
Isabella's livestream.
Collateral damage trending worldwide by dusk.
Sophia whirled toward the elevators, stiletto heels striking marble like gunfire. "Cancel it."
"Too late." Yanchen sounded almost apologetic. "Pilot's been paid triple to ignore abort commands."
The elevator doors slid shut on Isabella's honeyed "Catch you at the top, Soph!"
Rooftop: 5:03 PM
Wind whipped across the helipad like an angry spirit, tangling Sophia's hair into a golden storm as she emerged onto the roof. To the east, a matte-black Robinson R44 chopper thundered toward the building—Yanchen's misguided serenade, its side emblazoned with the Chen Group's jade-green dragon logo.
To the west, a candy-apple red Bell 407 approached, its open cabin revealing Isabella perched on a white leather seat, ring light gleaming off her tearful smile. "Surprise, babe!" she cooed into her livestream camera as Lucian Vaughn—freshly bailed out and reeking of desperation—adjusted his headset beside her. "True love deserves cinematic gestures!"
The livestream chat scrolled across both helicopters' LED displays:
[@Isababy4Ever]: OMG LUCIAN'S PROPOSING!!!
[@DramaLlama]: SOPH LOOKS LIKE SHE'LL MURDER THEM MIDAIR
[@MamaGirlHive]: 10/10 WOULD WATCH THIS THRILLER
Sophia's pilot barked through the black chopper's comms: "Miss Chen, prepare for bouquet drop and banner deployment!"
"Abort!" Sophia roared, but the cockpit's partition slammed shut. Above her, the cargo hatch yawned open, releasing a blizzard of blood-red roses and a fifty-foot banner: MARRY ME, SOPHIA—LET'S MERGE MORE THAN PORTFOLIOS.
Isabella's chopper banked sharply, Lucian now kneeling with a ring box as her crew launched heart-shaped confetti cannons. "Sophia, darling!" Isabella's voice pierced the rotor wash. "Come congratulate us!"
The collision alarm screamed first—a pulsing wail that shredded eardrums.
Then the world tilted.
Yanchen's pilot, blinded by rose petals, jerked the controls left.
Isabella's cameraman, chasing the perfect sunset shot, lurched right.
For three eternal seconds, the helicopters danced a death waltz—rotor blades slicing air molecules apart as they spun within twenty feet of each other. The black chopper's banner wrapped around the red's landing skids like a vengeful ghost.
Livestream feeds captured it all:
Isabella's ring tumbling into the void.
Lucian's scream harmonizing with the collision alarm.
Sophia, haloed by whipping hair and adrenaline, laughing like the world's ending was the best inside joke.
Control Room Chaos
In Royal Entertainment's basement, a junior producer gaped at the aerial footage splashed across twelve monitors. "We're hitting 2 million concurrent viewers! Should we cut the feed?"
"Are you insane?" The director snatched the intercom. "Camera drones closer! Zoom on Vaughn's face! Someone add romantic violin music!"
Rooftop: 5:07 PM
Sophia clung to a safety rail as downwash ripped roses into projectile weapons. Her phone buzzed—Eleanor's contact photo flashing beside a text:
Mom: This isn't what I ordered!
Sophia: You wanted viral? Enjoy the crash landing.
The helicopters stabilized through sheer pilot skill, now hovering like drunken hummingbirds. Isabella's perfect curls stood on end from static electricity, her tear-streaked mascara creating Rorschach blots of desperation. "This was supposed to be MY MOMENT!" she shrieked off-camera, audible through Sophia's livestream audio leak.
Yanchen's voice crackled in Sophia's earpiece: "I'll have the pilot arrested!"
"Save it." Sophia watched a rose petal plaster itself to Lucian's sweat-slicked forehead. "Just billed your account $20 million for this horror show. Call it an incompetence tax."
As the choppers lurched toward separate landings, Sophia strode to the rooftop edge where Isabella's team cowered. She plucked a surviving rose from the tarmac and tucked it behind her ear, blood-red against gold.
"Rom-com or disaster flick?" She grinned at the camera drones. "Why choose?"
The hashtag #HelicopterHeartbreak trended before the rotors stilled.
Epilogue: 8:17 PM
In the Sterling penthouse, Sophia soaked in a tub of Dom Pérignon-infused bath salts while monitoring the fallout:
Isabella's engagement merch (matching helicopter pajamas) discounted to $0.99Yanchen's leaked prenup demands ("No heirs, no airs, no hairless cats")Lucian's new mugshot photoshopped onto romance novel covers
Eleanor appeared in the bathroom doorway, her reflection warped by steam. "Was the near-death experience necessary?"
Sophia sank deeper, bubbles glinting like diamond dust. "Mom, please. I've seen you stage-manage coups with less flair."
A beat. Then Eleanor's lips twitched. "The Chens want a redo. Hot air balloon proposal over the Grand Canyon."
Sophia's laughter echoed off the Carrara tiles, bright and dangerous. "Tell them I'll bring my own parachute."
Somewhere below, Isabella's wail pierced the LA smog—a siren song of shattered vanity.
The game, Sophia mused, kept getting better.