I don’t know how I’ve made it through last night.
When Greg taunted about the book, I dodged his question with the grace of soone who’s had far too much practice evading uncomfortable truths and told him I was going to sleep.
Thankfully, rcifully, he let off the hook and returned to his side of the bed. I turned my back to him, staring into the dark, and spent the next few hours pretending to sleep while my thoughts spiraled like they were auditioning for chaos.
By the ti exhaustion finally dragged under, it felt more like surrender than rest.
When I wake up, his side of the bed is cold.
There’s a note tucked into the pillow he used.
I’m off to work. I ordered you breakfast. Heat it up before eating.
I exhale slowly and head to the kitchen, still half-asleep. I don’t bother setting the table. I eat standing by the counter.
When I’m done, I glance toward the living room.
Jean is seated on the couch, posture immaculate as ever, eyes fixed on her phone. She’s dressed in her usual black suit and slacks, hair pulled into a neat bun that looks like it hasn’t moved since last night.
When her eyes flick up and et mine, I smile and lift a hand in a small wave. She nods once in return.
So formal.
I don’t waste ti and hurry back to my room, rembering what’s happening today.
Today is the shareholders’ eting.
While deciding what to wear, I go over the questions and answers Dale prepared, repeating them in my head like lines before a performance. I choose sothing simple and composed: a white dress with a pencil skirt, a pale blue coat layered over it. Not too flashy, but sophisticated.
My hair goes into a bun, curtain bangs framing my face just enough to soften the edges. By the ti I’m done, I look... presentable.
Good enough.
Dahlia arrives at my car at the last minute, slightly breathless.
"Have you seen the news?" she asks imdiately, sliding into the seat beside .
She explains that her alarm didn’t ring and she almost missed the auspicious ti. I don’t ask what exactly makes it auspicious. At this point, I’ll take any superstition willing to be on my side.
Dale arrived earlier but chose to drive separately. His car follows behind mine, tucked neatly into the convoy.
"What news?" I ask, genuinely clueless. I haven’t checked my socials since waking up.
Which, in hindsight, might’ve been an act of self-preservation.
Dahlia stares at like I’ve confessed to living under a rock. "You’re everywhere," she says, thrusting her phone toward . "Everyone knows about the inheritance and the fact that you were never married to Mr. Hansley. You’re number one trending again."
She pauses, then adds, forcing a smile, "Wow. Staying on top of the trending list for over a month. That’s... impressive?"
The worry in her eyes betrays her enthusiasm.
"There’s no point delaying what’s bound to happen," I say quietly.
When we arrive at the Hansley Group headquarters, the scene is exactly what I expect and sohow still overwhelming.
The press has already laid siege to the building.
Caras crowd the entrance like weapons, lenses glinting under the morning sun. Reporters shout over one another, voices overlapping into an incomprehensible roar. Microphones are raised, arms stretching forward as if proximity alone might force to answer.
Hansley’s private security forms a tight human barricade, black suits and earpieces creating a wall between chaos and order. It’s the only thing keeping the scene from turning feral.
Jean steps out first, scanning the area with practiced precision. The rest of my security moves in imdiately, closing ranks around as I exit the car.
The mont my heels touch the pavent, the noise explodes.
"Ms. Elyn—!"
"Is it true you were never legally married?"
"Are you giving up the shares?"
"Do you have any comnt on the will’s legitimacy?"
"Are you here as a widow or an opportunist?"
Flashes erupt in rapid succession, white light slicing through my vision. For a split second, everything blurs. Sound, light, movent crashing together until it’s almost dizzying.
I straighten my spine.
Chin up. Shoulders back. Eyes forward.
I don’t answer. I don’t flinch. I walk.
The questions buzz around like angry insects, relentless and invasive, but I keep moving, guided by security, my expression carefully neutral. Neither guilty nor defiant.
Because this is the stage now.
And whether they love or tear apart...
I’m already in the spotlight.
I feel nervous, but I hold my head high and keep my poker face firmly in place.
On the inside, though, I’m very aware that my heart is attempting to audition for a drumline. It’s fine. Completely fine. I’ve survived worse than a room full of strangers with opinions and microphones. At least microphones don’t bite. Usually.
Breathe, I tell myself. Smile internally. Do not trip. Definitely do not trip.
If confidence is a performance, then I’ve done enough tours to fake it convincingly.
Jean and Dale flank as we enter the building, solid presences on either side, like human parentheses keeping from spiraling off the sentence of my own life. The noise swells behind us, questions shouted, caras clicking, curiosity sharpened into sothing invasive.
I don’t answer anything.
I don’t look at the press either. Not because I’m afraid, but because I refuse to let them decide who I am in this mont. Their eyes are trained to peel people open, to strip them down to headlines and scandal, as if a life can be reduced to a few juicy bullet points.
As if that’s all I am.
They don’t know . And they don’t get to decide whether I deserve to be here.
I straighten my spine just a little more.
Think whatever you want, I’ll still walk forward.
The doors close behind us, muffling the chaos into a distant hum. The air inside is cooler, quieter, controlled.
Naomi welcos , and she briefs for several minutes.
And then she leads to the conference room.
The doors open, and I rember the ssage Greg sent on the way here.
Don’t bow to any of them. Don’t show weakness. You are the nation’s most powerful woman, rember that.
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