I stood in front of the Monroe Corporation building, not as Edward’s wife, not as a grieving woman hidden behind designer mourning, but as a sovereign force carved from betrayal, silence, and every scar I had been forced to wear as armor. I didn’t flinch at the cameras flashing from across the plaza, didn’t pause as reporters screamed my name like vultures tasting blood. They didn’t understand yet that I was no longer prey. I wasn’t a story they were about to become the footnote in mine.
The glass façade of the tower reflected me as I moved forward tall, unshaken, encased in the midnight blue suit my mother once wore the week she claimed back her company from men who underestimated her grief.
My heels struck the stone steps like declarations, like war drums leading an army no one could
