The next morning, everything changed.
The penthouse — once a glamorous cage — now felt like command central. Emails were coming in. Articles were updating. PR statements were drafted and redrafted. Ava Morales wasn't just trending — she was being dissected, devoured, and slowly, dangerously redefined.
But this time, I wasn't powerless.
This time, I had leverage.
Blood in the Water
The moment the press release dropped announcing Phoenix Influence Group, everything caught fire again. But this time, it was strategic.
Maverick didn't just announce our joint venture — he weaponized it.
"Ms. Morales is a self-made creator with a vision. This is not damage control. It's dominance."
His words were everywhere — in Forbes, in Elle, in the business section of The New York Times. The narrative flipped from scandal to strategy overnight.
People weren't calling me a gold-digger anymore.
Now, they were calling me a shark.
I liked it.
But so did someone else.
The Snake in Silk
Genevieve made her move three days later.
It was subtle. Elegant. Poisoned.
Maverick was in meetings with his global hotel expansion team. I was in the middle of finalizing campaign mockups for the launch when a white envelope was delivered to the penthouse — no return address.
I shouldn't have opened it.
But I did.
Inside was a photograph.
A grainy, zoomed-in shot of Maverick in a private suite. Champagne bottle. Laughing. Half-buttoned shirt.
And a woman on his lap.
Blonde. Red lips. Perfect teeth.
Genevieve.
There was a sticky note attached to the photo.
Some kingdoms aren't built — they're inherited.
And you were never born for the throne.
I didn't cry.
I stared at it for a full minute, then calmly tossed it into the fireplace.
But the flame that burned wasn't just the photo.
It was my patience.
Lines in the Marble
When Maverick returned that night, I was waiting for him in the sunken living room, barefoot, silk robe clinging to my skin. A drink in my hand.
He paused, reading the air instantly. "What happened?"
"She sent a photo."
His shoulders tightened. "Of what?"
"You. Her. A suite."
His jaw flexed. "It's old. I can tell you the exact night. That's from eight months ago — the Monaco event. She showed up uninvited. I told her to leave."
"But not before she climbed onto your lap?"
He closed the distance between us in three slow steps. "You don't believe I slept with her, do you?"
"I believe she wants me to."
"She wants to destabilize you. She can't touch me — so she's going after my weakness."
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm your weakness now?"
He didn't blink. "Yes."
Silence.
Thick. Loaded. A current of truth buzzing under every word.
I sat down, legs crossed. "Then don't protect me. Weaponize me."
His head tilted. "What are you asking for?"
"I want a seat at the table."
"You have one."
"No — I want your boardroom. I want your wolves to see me walk in and wonder how fast I'll sink my teeth."
He gave a slow, dangerous smile.
"Then wear black tomorrow."
Queen on Display
Ryder Corp's quarterly investor summit was held in a glass cathedral of a conference center downtown. Marble floors. Gold accents. Security like Fort Knox.
Maverick arrived first.
I followed twenty minutes later in an off-the-shoulder black velvet dress that molded to my body like it had been poured on. My heels clicked like gunfire on the marble. My makeup was sharp, lips blood-red.
Every executive turned.
Some with lust.
Some with loathing.
All with attention.
Genevieve was there too — of course. She wore cream. Safe. Timeless. But compared to me? She looked like background.
I walked to the main table and took the seat beside Maverick without asking.
The room paused.
Then it began.
The Death of Silence
Maverick's voice was velvet and steel as he opened the summit.
"Before we begin, I want to introduce a new member of our strategic leadership. Ava Morales, co-founder of Phoenix Influence Group and my fiancée. She'll be sitting in on all brand, PR, and expansion decisions."
A low murmur swept the table.
Genevieve's eyes were daggers. Her smile? Hollow.
A man on the left — older, gray-haired, reeked of entitlement — leaned forward.
"With all due respect," he said smoothly, "is this… wise? The boardroom isn't an influencer's playground."
I leaned in before Maverick could answer.
"With all due respect, sir, this brand isn't your country club anymore either. It's bleeding relevance. And I didn't build a seven-million-follower platform on yoga poses and matcha lattes. I built it by knowing what people want before they know it themselves."
Silence.
I smiled sweetly.
"So if you're done underestimating me, we can begin."
Maverick's lips twitched.
Genevieve blinked.
And the gray-haired man? He shut the hell up.
Fire Beneath the Throne
The meeting ended with polite applause and quiet awe.
I walked out ahead of Maverick.
He caught up to me at the elevators, that dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"You came for blood today."
"I came for my seat."
"You got it," he said. "But now they're watching."
"Let them. I'm not afraid of the fire."
He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear.
"You are the fire."
The elevator doors opened, and he pulled me in.
And then?
He kissed me.
Not softly. Not gently.
But like he owned me.
And maybe, in that moment, I didn't mind.
The Cut That Bled
Later that night, after a victory toast and a long bath, I found another envelope slid under the penthouse door.
This time, it wasn't Genevieve.
It was a letter.
Handwritten.
The handwriting was sharp. Masculine. Unfamiliar.
But the message was unmistakable.
Ms. Morales,
You're making enemies faster than you're making headlines.
You've stepped into a world where alliances are currency — and yours are fragile.
If you want to survive, you'll need more than a powerful man.
You'll need to become more powerful than him.
Watch your back.
— A Friend
I read it twice.
Then I read it a third time.
And I realized something terrifying.
This wasn't about love anymore.
This wasn't even about power.
This was about war.
And I had just declared mine.