Chapter 232

“Noelle, am I your freaking assistant now? How many times have you asked me for autographs? And now you want a hundred! And you want me to deliver them! You’ve got some nerve!”

Stanley was practically fuming as he paced the reception room, yelling into his phone. Ever since his band, The Legend, skyrocketed to fame, his schedule had been insane—nonstop performances, commercials, variety shows. He barely slept four hours a night.

Stanley had assumed that with all this hustle, he’d be swimming in cash. But payday came, and when he checked his bank statement, his jaw dropped.

Three million dollars.

That was it. Three. Freaking. Million.

Just the album sales alone had raked in over 150 million, not to mention the brand deals, live gigs, and global tours. By conservative estimates, the company had made hundreds of millions off them. Stanley figured, okay, maybe not 100 million in his pocket, but at least 30 million, right?

Nope. A meager 3 million was all he got.

He was livid. So he stormed into Nicolas’s company HQ, ready to raise hell and demand answers.

But before he could even locate Nicolas, his phone rang. It was Noelle—casually asking him to sign a hundred photos and personally deliver them. She genuinely didn’t get it. In her eyes, she and Nicolas were the kindest people ever.

Stanley wasn’t done venting. “You leeches! Never met a stingier couple. I’m expensive, okay? EXPENSIVE. You think my time is cheap?”

Before he could finish his rant, the door to the reception room swung open.

In walked a tall man in a tailored suit, exuding refinement and dominance. Stanley instantly shut up.

It was Nicolas.

No matter how much stronger Stanley might be physically—as a "transformer," he could easily knock Nicolas into next week—there was just something about the man that made him shrink. Like a mouse spotting a cat.

Nicolas’s signature cool smile was firmly in place as he looked at Stanley. “Heard you shouting all the way down the hall. Seems you’ve got some strong feelings. Who were you yelling at?”

Stanley didn’t answer. He didn’t dare.

On the phone, Noelle noticed the sudden silence. “Stanley! Why’d you go quiet! Wait, was that Nicolas? Are you at his place! Hello! Why aren’t you talking?!”

Nicolas raised a brow and walked over, eyeing the phone in Stanley’s hand. Calmly, he leaned in and said with a smile, “Noelle, Stanley’s here with me. What do you need from him?”

Noelle whined, putting on a pitiful tone. “I asked him for some signed photos, and he just started yelling at me and you! He said we’re a ‘ruthless couple’!”

“Is that so?” Nicolas’s smile didn’t falter, but his gaze turned razor-sharp as it flicked back to Stanley.

Darn snitch, he cursed silently. Can’t win an argument so she tattles instead. Shameless.

Nicolas kept his tone even as he asked, “Sweetheart, how many autographs do you need?”

“One hundred.”

“Alright,” Nicolas replied smoothly. “I'll have Stanley sign a thousand and send them over.”

“A thousand?” Noelle gasped. “That’s…”

Stanley’s eyes went round as saucers. A thousand?! Is this man insane!

Nicolas didn’t miss a beat. He glanced at Stanley again—cool, composed, deadly. Stanley’s sudden surge of defiance vanished into thin air.

Why the hell am I so scared of this guy?

Nicolas turned back to the phone. “It’s no big deal. The Legend is hugely popular right now—plenty of people want signed merch. With a thousand, you can hand them out to classmates, make friends. It’s efficient.”

Noelle giggled. “That makes sense! Okay then—let’s do a thousand.”

Stanley wanted to scream. “HELLO! I’m the one doing the damn signing here! Why are you agreeing on my behalf?”

Nicolas chuckled. “Alright, I’ll chat with Stanley here and have him bring them to you soon."

“Okay!” Noelle chirped. “Tell him to be careful, though. Harley said getting spotted could cause a commotion.”

“I’ll remind him,” Nicolas said.

“Bye now!”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

The call ended.

Nicolas slowly turned to Stanley.

Stanley took a deep breath and braced himself, muttering internally, Don’t let him intimidate you. Don’t let him win.

With forced confidence, he said, “Mr. Sawyer, you’re really treating me like your personal assistant now? A thousand autographs! Seriously?”

Nicolas strolled over to the couch and sat down with aristocratic grace. “Is there a problem?”

“Of course there’s a problem!” Stanley snapped. “Easy for you to say—it’s not you doing the signing!”

Nicolas smiled faintly. “A thousand autographs is nothing. At your next fan meet, you’ll probably be signing ten thousand.”

Stanley sputtered. “You want me to be a signing machine? What am I, a printer to you?!”

Nicolas raised a brow. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Stanley blinked. Wait, is he actually being nice—

Until Nicolas added casually, “A printer doesn’t complain as much as you do.”