Black Tie, No Surrender
1084 Words
Ellie:
The mirror is honest in a way people rarely are. It doesn’t flatter or excuse; it simply reflects the truth. And what it reflects today is perfection: dark hair sleek, eyes lined with something sharp enough to slice glass, lips painted a color designed to make people nervous, shoulders squared like armor.
Black. Of course black. It’s not a fashion statement—it’s a warning. And I have a warning to deliver tonight, whether anyone in San Monclair realizes it yet or not.
I move like a general inspecting her troops. The dress is tailored to feel like second skin, silk and satin pressed into obedient folds that accentuate control rather than invitation. The heels are a weapon; the clutch a declaration. I check my reflection again. I am untouchable. I am lethal. And I am f*****g furious.
Because the Head of the Windsor estate has once again attempted to sell me like a bond, a stock to be leveraged, and now the prey is about to meet the predator.
But I won't destroy him, not yet. Tonight is rehearsal. Tonight I practice patience, compliance, grace. Tonight I will wield restraint like a dagger hidden in velvet.
I pace the room, mentally reviewing the plan:
Listen, absorb, nod. The language of acquiescence is dangerous but necessary. Let Reign Sinclair believe he’s the one holding power. It will make him careless.
Mark weaknesses. People always have them. The way he smirks, the way he drinks, the way he underestimates everyone who doesn’t beg for attention. This is my homework.
Maintain control. If I can control the environment—my posture, my tone, the lighting, the sharpness of my words—I control perception. And perception is everything in San Monclair.
Resist. When the inevitable attempts at domination come, when they test me with charm or subtle threats, resist with elegance, wit, and cold calculation.
I run through these points in my head while assembling the rest of my ensemble: a pair of matte black pumps, minimalistic diamond studs, a sleek clutch that could double as a weapon in the right hands. I pull on my fitted jacket, shoulders stiff with the reminder that tonight I am armored and threating in equal measure.
Every detail is deliberate. Every choice a declaration. Black is not for mourning tonight—it is war paint.
Once dressed, I descend the grand staircase, every step measured, the house echoing with my heels. I pass the portraits of my ancestors, those predatory Windsor men and women, the ones who built this city with blood, wit, and ruin. They seem to regard me with expectation, and I smile just slightly. I will not disappoint them.
The car is waiting. Downtown, the office awaits, the city stretched below in glittering rot—the same glitter that masks the hunger, the desperation, the ambition that fuels this place. Every street is a reminder that nothing is permanent here, not even loyalty, and certainly not innocence.
The chauffer stops in the heart of the city, infront of a soaring glass building cutting through the skyline. Windor is written in sleek, polished letters across the front. A simple reminder of who owns everything here. I step out and continue to the door. The office smells faintly of paper, coffee, and desperation. I enter, acknowledging the receptionist with a nod that’s both polite and infinitely cold. I don’t smile.
The employees are already gathered, drones buzzing about numbers, locations, projections. Today’s meeting is tedious, but required. I take my seat at the head of the table, letting my presence do the talking before anyone else can open their mouths.
The employee droning on about quarterly numbers doesn’t notice me at first, so absorbed in his slides he forgets who he’s talking to. I let him go for a moment, hiding my irritation behind perfect composure. My hands folded, nails pressed into the table just enough to remind myself I am here, awake, and paying attention.
But my attention is not compliance. My mind is elsewhere. Tonight. Reign Sinclair.
I imagine him across a room, smirking, disheveled in a way that somehow still communicates dangerous wealth. I imagine him thinking he could walk into this encounter and charm me like he does everyone else. The idea is delicious and infuriating in equal measure.
I shift slightly, listening to the employee jabber about occupancy rates, but my mind critiques, categorizes, and plans. Every number is a weapon. Every location a leverage point. I take mental notes, not because I care about their petty numbers, but because control is control, and I am always collecting.
The meeting drones on. The voice of the employee is a dull buzz under the roar of my own internal plotting. I imagine Ellie Windsor at the top of her empire, a fortress of intellect and strategy, and I remember: that is exactly who I am. No one owns me, no one bends me, and certainly no one walks into my world expecting me to be a gift.
Tonight, I will test Reign Sinclair. I will measure his arrogance, his reach, his patience. And when he believes he’s the predator—I will remind him that some prey are wolves in couture.
The meeting ends in the usual applause for figures that barely matter, and I rise, spine straight, eyes scanning for any weakness, any sign of distraction I can exploit later. My assistants trail behind, carrying notes and schedules. I accept them with a smile so tight it could cut glass.
Because I am Eleanor Windsor. Calculated, cold, sharp. And I will not be a pawn.
Back in my downtown office, I take a moment to breathe. Not in relief, but in calculation. I run through tonight’s strategy, mentally rehearsing my expressions, my posture, the perfect balance of curiosity and restraint.
Nod, but do not submit.
Smile, but do not soften.
Ask questions, but only the ones that position me in control.
Respond to his provocations, but never lose composure.
The first meeting is a battlefield. And I intend to win before the war even begins.
The clock ticks closer to departure, and I stand, adjusting the collar of my jacket. Everything must be perfect. Hair, nails, expression. My reflection in the glass reminds me: perfection is my weapon, ice is my shield, and composure is my strategy.
If he thinks he’s walking into a spoiled, easily intimidated girl tonight, he hasn’t met Eleanor Windsor.
I’m ready.
And I’m f*****g furious.
- Writer
