The ballroom of King's Grand Hotel glimmered like a diamond — chandeliers cascading soft light over marble floors, glass walls revealing the glowing skyline of Nova Heights. Guests drifted in wearing smiles worth millions and secrets worth more.
Amelia stood near the stage, headset on, clipboard in hand, every nerve strung tight.
This was it — the launch. Her first major assignment. Her career's make-or-break moment.
She'd checked every name twice, every lighting cue three times, but her stomach still twisted with nerves.
"Table seven wants more champagne," someone said through her earpiece.
"On it," she replied quickly. "Send catering now."
"Miss Jones," another voice cut in — sharp, male. "Mr. King's asking for you."
Her pulse spiked. Of course he is.
She turned to see him across the room, tall and intimidating in his tailored black suit. The crowd moved around him like waves avoiding a rock. Even from here, he looked impossibly composed — the kind of man who'd never known chaos.
Amelia crossed the room, heels clicking on marble, forcing herself to breathe.
"Sir?"
Christopher's icy blue eyes swept over her. "You told the press to be stationed near the east hall, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then explain why they're crowding the main entrance and blocking the VIPs."
Her heart sank. "What—? That's not possible, I—"
"Don't tell me it's not possible. Fix it." His tone sliced through the noise around them. A few guests turned to look. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
"Yes, sir."
She hurried off, phone in hand, coordinating the staff. It took ten exhausting minutes, but she managed to redirect the press, calm the sponsors, and make it all appear seamless again.
When she finally returned, Christopher was talking to Clara Bennett, who was also one of Christopher's executives and also had an eye for him — perfect curls, red lips, and a dress that cost more than Amelia's salary for a year. Clara laughed softly, resting a hand on his arm like she owned the world.
Amelia's chest tightened, and she immediately hated herself for it. Don't care. Don't even think about it.
"Miss Jones," Christopher said suddenly, turning toward her. "We have another issue."
Clara's eyes flicked to Amelia, full of mild disdain. "Is she your assistant?"
"She's handling coordination," Christopher replied curtly.
"Oh." Clara smiled thinly. "Well, she looks exhausted. You shouldn't overwork your staff."
Amelia forced a polite smile. "I'm fine, ma'am."
Clara tilted her head. "I'm sure you are."
Christopher's phone buzzed. He excused himself, leaving the two women standing there.
Clara's smile vanished the moment he was gone.
"I've seen your type before," she said softly. "Don't get comfortable. Christopher doesn't… keep people like you around for long."
Amelia's throat tightened. "I'm just doing my job."
"Of course you are," Clara said, brushing imaginary lint off her dress before strutting away.
Amelia clenched her clipboard until her knuckles turned white.
---
Hours later, the event reached its peak. The new KingTech prototype was about to be unveiled. Cameras flashed, investors whispered, the press leaned forward.
Amelia stood by the stage cueing the spotlight. "On a count of … three, two—"
The screen behind Christopher glitched.
Once. Twice.
Then — black.
A collective murmur spread across the hall. The presentation froze mid-sentence.
"System error," someone whispered over her headset.
"What?" Amelia hissed. "We tested it!"
The technician's voice stuttered. "It—it's showing corrupted files—someone replaced the presentation—"
"What do you mean replaced it?"
And then, before she could finish — the big screen lit up again.
But not with the company logo.
It was a video.
Of party footage. Bar lights.
A brief clip of a woman laughing in a dim room — blurry, unrecognizable, but enough to cause scandal.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cameras started flashing again, this time not for business.
Amelia's blood ran cold. "Turn it off! NOW!"
The technician scrambled, but Christopher was already glaring at her from across the stage — fury blazing in his eyes.
"Miss Jones," his voice thundered, echoing through the speakers, "What have you done?"
She froze. "I—I didn't—"
Security cut the video. The screen went dark. Silence fell.
Christopher descended the stage, jaw tight, voice low and lethal. "My company's image. My event. And this—" he gestured toward the dark screen "—happens on your watch?"
Her mouth went dry. "Sir, I swear, I didn't—someone must've tampered with it."
His expression hardened. "Save your excuses."
Clara appeared beside him, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Oh, Chris… how awful. Poor girl must be under a lot of pressure."
His jaw flexed. "You're suspended until further notice, Miss Jones. Effective immediately."
The crowd watched, whispers spreading like wildfire.
Amelia felt her throat burn. "Sir, please, I—"
"Leave," he said flatly, not even looking at her.
Tears blurred her vision as she turned and walked away, heels clicking too loudly in the silence.
---
That night, she sat alone on a park bench outside the hotel, her phone buzzing in her pocket.
Aunt Chloe.
She wiped her face quickly before answering. "Hey."
"Sweetheart, are you alright? The news is showing your boss's event everywhere—"
"I'm fine," Amelia whispered. "Just a misunderstanding."
Chloe's voice softened. "And the kids saw it, too. They're worried."
She swallowed hard. "Please… tell them Mommy's okay."
In the background, she heard Ethan's voice. "Mommy, did the mean man shout at you again?"
Amelia's eyes filled. "No, baby. Mommy's just… tired."
Chloe sighed. "Come home, Amelia. You don't owe that man anything."
Amelia looked up at the glowing skyline. Somewhere, at the top of it all, Christopher King was probably still fuming — convinced she was the problem.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet."
Because beneath the humiliation burned something sharper — the need to prove him wrong.
---