Blood on the Canvas, Gold on the Screen

Chapter 157: The Gelato Protocol

Trousdale Estates, Los Angeles. Monday, 3:00 PM PST.

The physical act of locking a one-foot-thick, matte-black steel blast door does not merely secure the assets within; it fundamentally alters the psychological atmosphere of the space above it.

With the master tapes of The Sanctuary Sessions and Sanctuary Vol. II entombed in the subterranean bedrock alongside nearly four million dollars in Swiss gold bullion, the mid-century fortress in Trousdale Estates had achieved a state of absolute, unassailable permanence. It was no longer just a luxury residence. It was a sovereign stronghold.

Inside the sprawling, sun-drenched living room, the eighty-foot sliding glass doors remained wide open. The warm, eucalyptus-scented canyon breeze drifted effortlessly across the pristine white terrazzo floors.

Alex Turner was currently occupying the vintage Herman Miller Eames lounge chair, positioned perfectly in the geometric shade of the patio umbrella on the edge of the zero-edge pool. He was wearing his unbranded, charcoal Loro Piana cashmere t-shirt and matching sweatpants. His dark, obsidian eyes were closed, his breathing locked into a slow, hypnotic metronome.

The [Biological Endurance: Level 3 - The Immortal Sloth] trait was functioning at peak efficiency, meticulously repairing any microscopic cellular fatigue generated by the morning’s helicopter flight.

Radiating outward in a heavy, invisible ten-foot sphere was [The Sovereign’s Embrace: Level 2]. The hyperbaric field of peace washed over the Harem Council, completely neutralizing the chaotic, hyper-capitalistic frequencies of the outside world.

Jennifer Aniston and Mariah Carey were lounging on the massive Italian linen sectional, their bare feet tucked beneath them. They were engaged in a low-stakes, incredibly relaxed game of gin rummy, utilizing the reclaimed teakwood coffee table as their playing surface.

Monica Bellucci, draped in her cream-colored cashmere loungewear, was standing in the chef’s kitchen. She was meticulously preparing a plate of fresh figs and imported burrata cheese, perfectly content in the profound silence of the estate.

At exactly 3:05 PM, the silence was broken by a soft, mechanical whirring sound.

The heavy-duty, commercial-grade thermal fax machine that Richard Vance Jr. had installed on the granite island hummed to life. The machine spat out a thick stream of watermarked paper with a rhythmic shhh-clack.

Monica paused her culinary preparations, setting her silver knife down. She gracefully walked over to the machine and picked up the descending pages, her dark eyes scanning the dense, legal typography.

A slow, highly amused smile pulled at her lips.

She walked out from behind the kitchen island, padding barefoot across the terrazzo floor toward the living room.

"The European sector is officially experiencing a systemic panic," Monica announced, her rich Italian accent carrying a tone of deep, vindictive satisfaction. She held the fax up for Jennifer and Mariah to see. "It appears the localized earthquakes we generated in the United States have crossed the Atlantic."

Jennifer set her cards face-down on the teakwood table, her blue eyes widening with curiosity. "Did Roberto Conti try to renegotiate his lease again?"

"Roberto is currently too busy sweating in a building without air conditioning to bother us," Monica replied smoothly, referencing the Slacker King’s gloriously petty real estate mandate. "No, this is from the executive boardrooms of EMI Europe and BMG International. They have seen the Billboard metrics. They know that Warner Bros. and Sony have surrendered entirely to Tyrant Group LLC."

Mariah leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. As a global superstar, she understood the staggering mathematics of the international market. "They want the overseas distribution rights for the albums."

"They are begging for them," Monica corrected, tracing a manicured finger down the text. "The fax states that the managing directors of both conglomerates are prepared to board private jets in London and Berlin this evening. They are requesting an emergency, in-person summit at the Trousdale estate tomorrow morning to pitch their licensing structures."

On the terrace, a low, resonant groan of profound spiritual suffering vibrated from the buttery black leather of the Eames chair.

Alex Turner had not opened his eyes. He hadn’t shifted his weight by a single millimeter.

"The audacity of the European corporate machine is staggering," Alex drawled lazily, his deep baritone carrying perfectly into the living room. "They assume that because they own airplanes, I possess the desire to sit upright and listen to their accents."

Jennifer giggled, seamlessly slipping into her role as the apex gatekeeper. She slid off the linen sectional and walked over to the teakwood tray, picking up the heavy Motorola brick phone. She extended the thick black antenna.

"Shall I dispatch Richard, Mr. CEO?" Jennifer asked, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Deploy the lawyer, Jen," Alex sighed softly. "And tell him to intercept their flight plans before they waste jet fuel."

Jennifer dialed the direct, encrypted line for Sterling, Hughes & Vance. The call was answered on the first ring.

"Tyrant Group, Executive Office," Jennifer murmured into the receiver, projecting the flawless, icy authority of the sanctuary.

"Ms. Aniston. Good afternoon," Richard Vance Jr.’s voice crackled through the analog connection. The corporate attorney sounded impeccably sharp, though a distinct undertone of manic, high-stakes adrenaline laced his words. "I assume you are calling regarding the international barrage?"

"The barrage is currently generating visual clutter in our kitchen, Richard," Jennifer noted smoothly. "The CEO is highly displeased by the prospect of European executives attempting to breach the Vanguard perimeter."

"I completely understand, ma’am. Please inform Mr. Turner that I have explicitly denied their requests for a physical summit," Richard reported proudly. "However, the international market is a critical revenue vector. If we do not establish official distribution channels in Europe and Asia, the pirate syndicates will inevitably fill the void, and we will lose the mechanical royalties on tens of millions of units."

Alex, utilizing his [Business Management: Level Max] trait, processed the logistical necessity of the international expansion in a fraction of a second. Richard was right. Leaving the overseas market entirely unmanaged was mathematically inefficient.

"Put him on speaker, Jen," Alex murmured blindly to the California sun.

Jennifer pressed the speakerphone button and set the heavy device on the edge of the stone terrace.

"Speak, Richard," Alex commanded lazily. "And please explain how we are going to extract European capital without requiring me to put on hard-soled shoes."

"Mr. Turner. Good afternoon," Richard chuckled, a dark, incredibly satisfied sound. "The major international labels are operating in a state of absolute desperation. They know that whoever secures the Sanctuary catalogs will dominate the global market share for the remainder of the decade. We hold the ultimate leverage."

"Leverage requires a mechanism for extraction," Alex noted. "What is your proposal?"

"I propose we institute a blind auction, sir," Richard dictated, his Ivy League brain spinning at maximum velocity. "We do not accept meetings. We do not negotiate terms over the phone. We simply issue a single, one-page fax to the top five international conglomerates. We inform them that Tyrant Group LLC is accepting sealed, blind bids for the exclusive overseas licensing rights."

Mariah Carey’s eyes widened in sheer awe. "A blind auction. They won’t know what the other labels are bidding. They will panic and bid against themselves."

"Precisely, Ms. Carey," Richard confirmed. "Because they are terrified of losing the asset, they will inevitably offer their absolute maximum threshold. We simply set a deadline of 5:00 PM tomorrow. The highest cash advance, paired with the most aggressive royalty split in our favor, wins the continent."

Alex let out a slow, melodic hum of approval.

It was a flawless execution of the Slacker King’s doctrine. It required zero physical presence, zero verbal negotiation, and actively weaponized the opponent’s own insecurity to maximize profit.

"Richard," Alex said, his voice dropping into a register of icy, absolute sovereignty. "The blind auction protocol is approved. However, you will add one non-negotiable stipulation to the bidding manifest."

"I am ready, Mr. CEO. What is the stipulation?"

"The winning conglomerate must agree to remit all international royalties directly into the Swiss holding accounts," Alex commanded, his dark eyes finally opening to look at the blue sky. "I do not want foreign currency bottlenecking our domestic banks. The capital must remain entirely insulated from United States taxation triggers until we actively choose to repatriate it."

"A secondary, international Cayman wash routed straight into Zurich," Richard breathed, the sheer elegance of the financial architecture leaving him stunned. "It will make the LLC functionally invincible to domestic audits. I will draft the auction parameters and blast the faxes immediately."

"Excellent. Unplug your switchboard after you send them, Richard. Let them sweat for twenty-four hours."

"It will be done, sir. Have a restful afternoon."

Jennifer reached down and pressed the end button, collapsing the antenna. She picked up the phone and tossed it casually onto an empty lounge chair, entirely removing the corporate conduit from their immediate vicinity.

She turned and looked at Alex, shaking her head.

"You just initiated an international bidding war that will likely generate fifty million dollars, and you didn’t even shift your weight in the chair," Jennifer whispered, her voice laced with profound, intoxicating affection.

"Shifting my weight would have disturbed the ergonomic perfection of the leather, Jen," Alex reasoned flawlessly.

He slowly pushed himself up into a seated position, stretching his broad shoulders. The heavy, comforting wave of the [Aura of Tranquility] pulsed, completely erasing the momentary intrusion of the business world.

"Now," the Slacker King announced, looking toward the chef’s kitchen where Monica was arranging the fresh figs. "The administrative crisis has been entirely outsourced. The European continent is currently bidding for our favor. I believe this level of stress warrants immediate, aggressive caloric compensation."

"The burrata is ready, Alex," Monica smiled, picking up the silver tray.

"Burrata is an excellent appetizer, Monica," Alex drawled lazily, padding barefoot into the living room and collapsing onto the center of the linen megalith. "But I am establishing a new directive. Gatekeeper, call Julian at Platinum Concierge."

Jennifer grinned, retrieving the phone. "What are we ordering, Mr. CEO?"

"Tell Julian I require four pints of authentic, imported Italian gelato. Pistachio, stracciatella, and dark chocolate," Alex dictated smoothly, crossing his ankles on the teakwood table. "And tell him if the gelato arrives even slightly melted, I will permanently revoke his access to the Trousdale perimeter. We are celebrating the absolute triumph of doing nothing."

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!