Chapter 5
2369 Words
Niran
New York moved exactly as it always did—restless, relentless, untouched by anything that didn’t concern it.
It didn’t care who survived.
It didn’t care who didn’t.
And that was exactly why I chose this place to stay.
Glass walls surrounded my office, stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a view most people would kill for. Manhattan moved beneath me — structured chaos, ambition wrapped in steel and concrete.
I preferred it this way.
Predictable in its unpredictability.
I walked in without slowing, heels striking against marble in a steady rhythm that echoed authority before I even spoke. Conversations around the conference table died instantly. Laptops were adjusted. Files straightened.
Control didn’t need to be announced.
It settled into a room the moment I walked in.
“Elara,” I said, taking my seat at the head of the table, “summary.”
She didn’t waste time. “Three acquisitions finalized. Two pending regulatory approval. The Singapore property requires your sign-off.”
“Concerns?”
“None that can’t be handled.”
Good.
I leaned back slightly, ignoring the dull pull along my ribs. It was there — constant, irritating — but manageable.
“Proceed,” I said.
The meeting continued — numbers, projections, expansion plans. Voices overlapped occasionally, but never over me. They knew better.
A developer across the table hesitated mid-sentence.
“…and given the recent disruption,” he added carefully, “we might consider delaying the Midtown project.”
Silence followed.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that made people second-guess their own existence.
I lifted my gaze to him slowly. “Repeat that.”
He swallowed. “Just until stability is—”
“No,” I cut in, voice even, controlled. “You don’t pause expansion because of an inconvenience.”
The word sat wrong in my mouth.
Inconvenience.
My fingers tapped once against the table. Not impatience.
Correction.
“Delays signal weakness,” I continued, holding his gaze until he nodded. “And I don’t tolerate weakness in my operations.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The meeting resumed, sharper now. Focused.
But my mind had already moved elsewhere.
I remembered the way Kholod had walked in. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Certain. As if the room already belonged to him.
Something about that interaction refused to settle.
I had dealt with powerful men before. Men who believed influence made them untouchable.
They all shared one trait.
Noise.
They spoke louder. Moved louder. Asserted themselves constantly, as if afraid silence would strip them of authority.
Kholod Voda didn’t.
He didn’t need to.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The second—
Proximity.
My fingers stilled against the table as the memory sharpened.
The way he had stepped closer.
Close enough that his breath had brushed against my skin, steady and controlled, as if proximity itself meant nothing to him.
It should have been enough to trigger an instinctive reaction.
It always was.
I didn’t like people in my space.
Didn’t tolerate it.
Men who tried usually learned quickly where the line was.
Or I showed them.
But with him—
There had been no immediate disgust.
No sharp instinct to push him back or remind him of his place.
Just a brief, unsettling awareness of how deliberate the move was.
That was what I disliked.
The control behind it. And yet, part of me—against every rule I had drilled into myself—acknowledged curiosity. A variable I couldn’t ignore.
My jaw tightened slightly at the memory.
My gaze had moved over him then—quick, assessing.
Cold.
That was the first word that came to mind.
Not just in demeanor.
In presence.
His eyes had reminded me of something distant and unyielding—like a frozen ocean, still on the surface but hiding something far deeper beneath. There was no warmth there. No hesitation. Just calculation sharpened into instinct.
His face carried the same severity. Hard lines, composed to the point of being almost unapproachable. The kind of expression that would make most people look away first.
I hadn’t.
And neither had he.
That had been the problem.
“Niran.”
I blinked once, the memory dissolving as I refocused on the room.
“Continue.”
The meeting wrapped shortly after—decisions made, instructions given, outcomes set into motion before anyone left their seat.
Chairs shifted as people stood. Files were gathered. Quiet conversations resumed as they filtered out one by one.
I remained where I was, reviewing the final set of numbers on my screen.
Two days.
Two f*****g days wasted in a hospital bed because someone couldn’t control their driver.
And now this.
A gala.
Because apparently, the world didn’t pause just because I had been forced to.
—
The venue was exactly what it always was.
Excessive.
Crystal chandeliers cascaded from high ceilings, scattering light across polished marble floors. Gold accents lined the walls, subtle enough to pass as “elegant,” obvious enough to scream money. A live orchestra played something classical in the background—soft enough to be ignored, expensive enough to be noticed.
People filled the room in clusters.
Old money in tailored suits.
New money in louder ones.
Women draped in designer labels, conversations dipped in fake laughter and quiet judgment.
I was wearing a black full-sleeved gown. Structured.
No unnecessary detail. No softness.
My hair was pulled back, clean and tight. Not a strand out of place.
Presentable. Efficient. Enough.
I stepped inside.
Heads turned.
They always did.
Not because I sought attention.
Because presence didn’t ask for permission.
“Elara,” I said under my breath as she walked beside me. “Remind me why I’m here.”
“Visibility. Networking. Influence,” she replied smoothly.
“Right,” I muttered. “And boredom.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
We moved through the crowd.
The room smelled like expensive perfume and polished lies.
Conversations paused just long enough to acknowledge me before resuming with slightly altered tones.
Calculated.
Everything here was calculated.
A cluster of older men and some women stood near the center of the ballroom.
Familiar faces.
Investors. Political ties. Industry heads.
The kind of people who measured influence in silence, not noise.
I approached them, walking forward without slowing, heels sinking softly into the silence they pretended wasn’t there.
Mr. Sterling, CEO of Sterling International Group shifted slightly.
“Ms. Bricolla.”
He acknowledged with a slight nod.
I stepped in.
Not into their circle.
Over it.
“You delayed the Midtown approval,” I said to Mr Anders, interrupting him mid conversation.
No greeting.
No pretense.
His brows drew together slightly. “We advised reconsideration given—”
“Your advice cost me forty-eight hours,” I interrupted.
A pause.
Subtle tension rippled through the group.
Good.
“I don’t tolerate delays I didn’t approve.”
His expression hardened slightly. “With respect, decisions at that scale require—”
“Alignment?” I tilted my head slightly. “Or permission?”
The others shifted—watching now, not participating.
He exhaled slowly. “You’re pushing aggressively.”
“I’m moving efficiently.”
He nodded.
Once.
Small.
But enough.
“Understood.”
I held his gaze for a second longer.
Then let it go.
Conversation resumed—but differently now.
“Still breaking people without raising your voice.”
Nicholas Blackwell.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Every detail curated to perfection—tailoring sharp, presence effortless. Confidence that came not from proving, but from always having been.
Heir to Blackwell Global Holdings. Old money. Old power.
And my competitor.
I didn’t react immediately.
I took a slow sip of my drink before turning toward him.
“You’re interrupting,” I said.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
"What?" He asked, pretending to care.
"My peace." I said, getting annoyed with every passing second of him in my vicinity.
He smiled like that was intentional.
“It usually gets your attention.”
“It doesn’t earn it.”
That wiped half the amusement off his face.
Good.
He stepped closer anyway.
Of course he did.
“You disappeared for two days,” he said quietly. “I assumed it was serious.”
“I’m fine.”
His gaze moved over me briefly.
Not searching for weakness.
Just… taking inventory.
“I don’t like not knowing what you are up to,” he said teasingly but I knew the hidden message.
Not concern.
Control.
I met his eyes fully now.
“You don’t get to like or dislike anything about me anymore.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Not anger.
Something tighter.
More contained.
“You’re blocking my view,” I said after a moment of silence.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Of what?”
“The exit.”
That earned a short breath of something that might have been a laugh.
“Still running,” he said.
“I don’t run.” I set the glass on a passing tray without looking at it. “I leave when I’ve had enough.”
“And have you?”
My gaze flicked across the room once. Calculating.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“You always leave right before something interesting happens,” he said.
“Then I trust you’ll inform me if anything worth my time occurs.”
His eyes held mine.
“I always do.”
The weight behind it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Don’t,” I said simply.
He didn’t ask what I meant.
He understood.
He always did.
I turned before the conversation could go anywhere else.
I asked Elara to wait for me in the car while I use restroom.
The hallway outside was quieter.
Cooler.
The noise of the ballroom faded into something distant and irrelevant.
I stepped into the restroom, the sharp scent of marble polish and perfume replacing the suffocating air of forced conversations.
Finally.
Silence.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at my reflection.
My jaw tightened.
Normally, I would’ve burned this off in the ring. Gloves. Impact. Controlled damage.
That was how I dealt with things.
But this week hadn’t allowed it.
And frustration, when it had nowhere to go—
It didn’t disappear.
“Leaving so soon?” A voice called out as I stepped out of the restroom.
Old. Thick. Unpleasant.
I stopped. Turned.
Mid-fifties. Expensive suit. The kind of man who had never been told no enough times.
“I don’t recall inviting conversation,” I said flatly.
“That’s the thing about women like you,” he continued, a faint slur beneath his words. “Always so… distant. Makes a man curious.”
“Walk away,” I said calmly.
He smiled instead.
Wrong move.
“I think you misunderstand,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re all here to enjoy the evening—”
His hand moved.
And something in me snapped.
In an instant, I grabbed him and slammed his head into the wall.
Hard.
The crack echoed through the hallway.
Blood splattered across marble.
He screamed—high, broken, pathetic.
I didn’t stop.
“You stupid b***h—” he choked, trying to lunge at me.
I smashed his head again.
And again.
And again.
Each impact sharper. Heavier.
Controlled.
Precise.
Like muscle memory finally being allowed to do its job.
Until his words turned into wet sounds.
Until his body went slack.
Until the wall behind him was painted red.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Thick.
I stared at him for a second.
Nothing.
No guilt.
No hesitation.
Just the faint, settling release of pressure in my chest.
“Should’ve listened,” I muttered.
I glanced down at myself.
Blood. On my dress. On my hands. A few drops on my face.
Annoying.
I walked back into the restroom, turning on the tap, washing the blood off like it was nothing more than spilled wine.
Then I pulled out my phone and called.
He picked up on the third ring.
“Clean this up,” I said. “Hallway outside the restroom.”
A pause.
“You killed someone again,” Matteo said, his voice low, breath uneven. There was faint noise behind him I chose to ignore.
“Yes.”
“You need to control—”
“I don’t need your advice,” I cut him off, my tone dropping dangerously. “Do your job.”
Silence.
Then, quieter—“Fine.”
I hung up without another word.
What a f*****g week.
I stepped out of the restroom again—
And something in the air shifted.
Someone was out waiting for me.
Again.
Kholod Voda.
This time…
I wasn’t sure whether I hated it.
- Writer
