Victoria Hart stared at her buzzing phone, the glow of Sophia's social media metrics casting shadows across her office. The *Career Spotlight* debut had detonated like a glitter bomb in the zeitgeist, and Sophia's "Mama's Girl" persona was now cultural shorthand for weaponized privilege. Vic's finger hovered over the callback button. Sophia's refusal to capitalize on the hype wasn't naivety—it was *strategy*. By playing hard to get, she'd transformed from a laughingstock into an enigmatic icon.
"Clever girl," Vic muttered, a reluctant smile tugging her lips.
**Meanwhile: The Sterling Sanctum**
Alexander Sterling paced outside Sophia's bedroom like an anxious ghost, balancing a tray of matcha lattes and croissants flakier than the French Revolution. In the Before Times, he'd rouse her at dawn with off-key arias. Now? He tiptoed past her door, torn between paternal instinct and the sacredness of her 14-hour beauty sleep.
When Sophia finally emerged—hair a halo of bedhead, silk robe trailing like comet dust—Alexander lit up like Times Square.
"Good *afternoon*, Sleeping Calamity!"
Sophia flopped onto a chaise, groaning. "I need a stomach reduction. My organs are staging a coup."
Alexander gaped at her willowy frame. "You're a human breadstick! Eat!"
Brunch was a Rococo feast: caviar deviled eggs, gold-leaf pancakes, juice pressed from fruits that required diplomatic visas. Halfway through her third mimosa, Sophia's gaze sharpened.
"Dad. Daron Group shares. Dump them."
Alexander's fork froze mid-air. "Their oncology AI's groundbreaking—"
"Fraudulent." Sophia's voice could cut glass. "Faked trials, bribed researchers. They're inflating stock before the implosion."
In her fractured memories of the novel's unwritten chapters, she'd seen it—Alexander's fortune evaporating, his spirit crumbling, the grand piano gathering dust as his voice faded to silence.
Alexander's eyes widened. "How could you possibly—"
"Do you trust me?"
He didn't hesitate. "Always."
No debates. No patronizing *"Let adults handle this."* The Sterlings operated on a currency rarer than gold: faith.
Sophia gripped his hand, her Cartier nails biting into his skin. "My turn to protect you."
Alexander's laugh wobbled. "Darling, I'm supposed to be *your* shield."
He swiped at his eyes. "Allergies. Terrible season."
**The Backlash Ballet**
Across town, Isabella Montgomery's agent Kevin stormed ABC studios, face flushed like an overripe tomato.
"Cancel that nepotism parade!" he barked, slamming fists on a producer's desk. "*Mama's Girl* isn't a career—it's a *parody*!"
The producer didn't glance up from Sophia's skyrocketing ratings. "Funny. You didn't mind 'parody' when Isabella faked that orphanage volunteer segment."
Kevin's eye twitched. "This is different! Sophia's glorifying *laziness*!"
"She's glorifying *family*," the producer corrected. "Which, last I checked, still sells."
**Digital Dystopia**
By nightfall, think pieces rained like toxic confetti:
*"Mama's Girl: Capitalism's Final Form"*
*"Sophia Sterling—Nepo Baby or Domestic Terrorist?"*
*"Why We Secretly Want to Be Her"*
But the louder critics screeched, the harder stans rallied. For every "parasite" comment, a thousand replies bloomed:
[Let her live!]
[I'd sell my soul for a dad like Alexander.]
[Unconditional love IS a career. Fight me.]
Sophia's sin wasn't wealth—it was *flaunting* the fantasy every overworked, underpaid viewer craved: belonging. Safety. A soft place to land.
As the Sterling chef plated midnight tiramisu, Sophia's phone buzzed—a Daron Group alert. Stock prices had begun their death spiral.
She smirked, licking cocoa powder off her spoon.
Checkmate.