Larissa Judson and Haskell Palmer novel Chapter 697

“A paradise in appearance, a false prosperity in truth. A fleeting bloom, destined to fade into the world…”

Halfway through the first song, Lucius’s eyes turned glacially cold. He sat bolt upright, snatched the cigar from his lips, and smashed it onto the floor.

Still not satisfied, he kicked the table with explosive force, sending Milton’s phone, along with bottles and glasses, crashing to the ground.

Larissa’s voice, however, continued to pour out from the fallen device.

“M-Mr. Lincoln…” Milton stammered, too terrified to even retrieve his phone.

Damon’s face was equally grim. He knew exactly why Lucius was so enraged.

Larissa’s song, “False Prosperity,” was, firstly, a work of musical genius. Secondly, its lyrics were a thinly veiled allegory for the hollow grandeur of certain powerful families—a bloom destined to fade. Lucius, with his deep-seated animosity for Larissa, had naturally taken it as a direct insult to the Lincoln family.

“Damon,” Lucius said, his voice laced with a chilling smile. “I’m just a businessman, so I don’t know much about music. In your expert opinion, will this song be a hit?”

Damon broke into a cold sweat. “…It should be.”

“‘Should be’?” Lucius pressed.

Damon swallowed hard. “…It will most likely be a massive hit.”

“And compared to the song by Leopold, an artist under your own Gale Entertainment?” Lucius’s smile was now sharp enough to cut glass.

Hearing Lucius deliberately emphasize Leopold’s connection to his company, a drop of sweat trickled down Damon’s forehead. His voice trembled. “It has… more potential.”

“‘More potential,’” Lucius repeated coldly. “Milton, skip this song. Let’s hear the other two.”

“…Right.” On command, Milton scrambled to pick up his liquor-soaked phone from the floor and switched to the next track, “I’ll Ferry You from Sorrow.”

The tension drained from Damon’s body, replaced by a sense of utter defeat. Leopold had lost. And he had paid a ten-million-dollar breach of contract fee to acquire him.

Milton felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. If Larissa’s rise continued unchecked, he would be next. He would be the one on a leash, paraded through the streets for a live online audience.

His last sliver of hope rested on one man.

“Mr. Lincoln,” he prayed, “please crush her tomorrow.”

...

Meanwhile, the comment sections for all three songs were already flooding with reviews:

[HOLY CRAP! What language is ‘False Prosperity’ in? Never heard it before, but it’s hauntingly beautiful!]