The morning of the press conference dawned gray, the kind of muted light that felt like a held breath. The Cross estate, normally calm even in chaos, buzzed with purposeful movement. Vehicles lined the driveway, reporters waited at the gated entrance, and inside, staff scurried through the hallways with earpieces and clipboards like soldiers preparing for battle.
Mya stood before the mirror in her suite, smoothing the front of her cream-colored suit jacket. She’d chosen it carefully—simple, elegant, soft but commanding. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, her makeup understated except for a single touch of rose on her lips.
She wasn’t dressing to impress. She was dressing to reclaim herself.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she said, voice steady despite the hammering in he
