The Edge of Us

Thinking about being kidnapped by a serial killer or buried alive in my twenties? Please. That’s the kind of fear storybook writers love. Compared to watching Jessa’s horrified face as my disaster of a speech replayed on every news channel for the third hour, that’s practically a vacation. Not that I care about media humiliation or Dad’s yelling. I never have. But Jessa… she’s survived all my chaos, cleaned up every mess, endured my storms. Seeing her like this? Slightly unnerving. Infuriatingly amusing. Maybe both. The television in my cabin looped last night’s Pinnacle Awards footage. Aurelia Haven— Nexborough’s crown jewel of luxury—sparkled like a palace on steroids. Chandeliers hung like frozen lightning bolts, velvet drapes that probably cost more than a small nation, and the red carpet wriggled under the feet of the country’s business elite. CEOs, investors, moguls, socialites—all desperate to outshine each other, all pretending their million-dollar smiles weren’t dripping with envy. And me? Supposed to be their shining golden child. Instead, my speech played again. One… two… three… disaster. “I don’t need anyone’s validation. Not the board, not the competitors. And definitely not a crowd that only claps when they’re told to.” I knew I humiliated them. And honestly? They deserved it. Every fake handshake, every forced smile, every jealous glare—visible under the glittering chandeliers—was proof. Their greed and desperation were on display, and I couldn’t have cared less. I saw Jessa facepalming, groaning in irritation. The headlines on screen didn’t pull any punches: “The Ice Queen of Tech: Jiselle Sinclair’s Arrogant Speech at the Gala” “Beauty without Grace: CEO Sinclair Turns Award Into Scandal” Brutal? Absolutely. Fake? Not a word. I can’t pretend to be a sweetheart like the rest of them, and I’m not even a little guilty for what I said. Not. A. Bit. Jessa was the one who convinced me to go— dragged me into that flashy ceremony with a sparkly black gown and double-layered makeup I hated. I could have looked flawless with just a stroke of eyeliner and lipstick. And now? She’s the one enduring the fallout of my disaster. After what felt like hours of news, she turned to me. Even though my eyes were glued to my laptop, tracing numbers and formulas from our latest marketing improvements, I could feel her glare. She wasn’t shocked. Not exactly. She was seething—angry that, despite all her efforts, she couldn’t change me. Couldn’t soften me. Couldn’t make me conform. And honestly? That only made me smirk. Jessa may clean up my messes, but she’ll never control me. Never. “Jiselle!” I heard her stern voice. “What now?” I replied, as if nothing had happened. She didn’t punch me, thankfully—no baseball bat in the office—but the storm radiating off her tall frame was enough to make the air heavy. Dusky skin reddened, curls bouncing like warning signals, every inch of her screamed fury restrained only by office etiquette. She was simmering, trying to stay professional while every fiber of her being screamed at me. “What now? Do you even realize what you did last night? Every media outlet is tearing you apart!” I knew exactly how my next reply would push her buttons, and I couldn’t wait. Jessa wasn’t just anyone—she was the youngest daughter of the Ivers, the family behind one of the top ten fashion brands in the world, Iver Fashion and Trends. Our families, the Sinclairs and the Ivers, had been intertwined for over four decades. She was meant to inherit her empire, live a life of curated elegance and boardroom domination. Instead, she chose to tether herself to my chaos, staying by my side through every mess I created. She was the one who stayed after my mother died, the one who survived my worst moods, my worst decisions, my worst headlines. I, of course, took over the SynClair Cloud Group only because Dad bulldozed me into it. Yet somehow, Jessa managed to keep pace with my disasters, balancing her own ambitions with my unrelenting storm. To be frank, she and Jaden, her brother, were textbook bestfriend material—the kind you want in every life, loyal to a fault, annoyingly competent, impossibly patient. And yet, watching her simmer at me now, knowing my next words would make her cringe, I couldn’t help but smirk. She hated me for it—but secretly, she always did love the chaos I brought into her carefully measured world. “Well, the news channels found me the hottest topic to boost their TRP. Good, right? Free advertising without a single sponsorship.” Jessa didn’t move; she didn’t even blink at first. Then, with the slow inevitability of a storm, she marched toward my desk from her post by the television. I lifted my gaze from the laptop screen, meeting her eyes glowing red with restrained fury. Maybe I should stop teasing her right now. “Do these sound like compliments to you?” she snapped. I leaned back in my chair, twirling my pen lazily between my fingers, utterly unbothered. “So?” I drawled, letting the words stretch like molasses. “Bribe them. Pay them off. Shut them up. That’s your job, isn’t it?” Jessa groaned, loud enough for the sound to ricochet off the polished walls of my cabin. Her hands dragged down her face, smearing the remnants of minimal makeup she’d clung to after a sleepless night of running around with me for… that disaster of an event. I could read her thoughts clearly without a single word spoken: Why the hell do I put up with her? And I knew the truth. I didn’t force her to stay. She chose it—the harder, messier path—or maybe the universe just decided she’d be the one who could survive me. Either way, here she was, furious and helpless, and I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips. “Oh, sure.” Jessa snapped, lowering her hands to glare at me, every inch radiating frustration. “Because that’s what I do for you, right? Clean up your messes. But you can’t keep going on like this, Jiselle. You’ll burn bridges you don’t even see!” My lips curved into an infuriating half-smile—sharp, amused, knowing. The kind of smile that softened nothing, ever. “Fear keeps people in line,” I said calmly, spinning the pen between my fingers. “And being polite? Never creates fear.” I had tried it all—sweetness, politeness, charm, the whole endearing act. It had gotten me nowhere. Every kindness, every carefully measured word, only brought pain, betrayal, or disappointment. So I shed it all. I became this—the blunt, rude, unapologetic version of myself. The version no one dared to cross. The version that rebuilt our company from the edge of chaos. In just a year after Dad forced me into the CEO seat, this persona—ruthless, sharp-tongued, fearless —had restored SynClair Groups to its rightful place at the top. I wasn’t doing it to intimidate or punish anyone. Well… maybe a little. Mostly, it was survival, efficiency, and getting results where charm failed. Jessa shook her head, exasperated. “For the record, our company ranked first this year in the software industry. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” I let my gaze drift toward the skyline, deliberately avoiding her. Maybe I wasn’t even looking out the window—maybe I was watching my own reflection in the office glass, the figure I’d shaped, hardened, perfected. Her words, meant to sting, barely grazed me. I was unbothered by her frustration, unbothered by the chaos I left in my wake, unbothered by the empire I’d painstakingly rebuilt—or yesterday’s media fiasco. “Rankings are temporary,” I said smoothly, spinning the pen between my fingers. “And you know what makes them permanent? Effort. Dedication. Work you actually see and feel. That’s eternal. Everything else? Noise.” I paused, letting the weight of my calm, unshakable tone settle between us. “So,” I continued, infuriatingly composed, “enough with the reminders, the moral lectures, the whining. Tell me what’s next on the schedule.” I glanced back at Jessa, watching her utterly speechless. I swear one day she’d curse me so hard that the walls of this office would crack. But instead of yelling—or hurling the nearest stapler at my face —she sighed. A long, weary sigh, the kind only comes from watching your best friend harden into a stone over five years.