The next morning

The doors to my penthouse slid shut behind me with a soft click. 

Dressed in a tailored black coat, heels clicking against polished marble, I made my way to the waiting car.

My driver stood still as a stone, opening the door with a bow of his head. 

I stepped inside without a word, the door shutting behind me like a coffin lid.

The engine purred to life.

I had just taken a sip of my morning coffee, black, no sugar, when my phone rang.

I answered with a quiet, "Speak."

Lara's voice was tight, breathless. "They've gone public, ma'am."

I didn't reply.

"They're accusing you of everything, emotional instability, workplace toxicity, even discrimination against men. Ma'am, they're saying you fired them for being male."

Still, silence.

"They're demanding an apology. Some media outlets already picked it up. They say you should step down for review."

I stared out the tinted window, city buildings blurring past like static.

Apologize?

I hadn't even begun.

"Let them speak," I said, my voice cool as winter fog. 

"They'll choke on their own lies soon enough."

"But the press—"

"I'll handle the press."

"Should I prepare a formal statement?"

"No," I said flatly. "Prepare their obituaries."

Lara fell silent on the other end.

"Yes, ma'am."

I ended the call.

I didn't scream. Didn't throw my phone.

 I simply sat back and adjusted the cuff of my coat, my mind already ten steps ahead. 

The men I'd fired had underestimated one crucial detail:

Carmen Blackwood doesn't lose.

When the car slowed to a stop outside Blackwood Enterprises, the atmosphere shifted.

Reporters.

Cameras.

Dozens of them, waiting behind security ropes, voices rising the moment they saw my car.

 Microphones lifted. Flashes flickered like lightning.

"Ms. Blackwood! Is it true you fired the board unjustly?"

"Do you hate men?"

"Is Blackwood Enterprises collapsing under your rule?"

"Will you apologize publicly?"

The driver stepped out and opened the car door.

And then

I emerged.

Effortlessly poised, skin glowing under the morning sun, lips painted in silent defiance.

I didn't glance at the cameras. Didn't offer a smile. 

My presence alone pulled the noise from the air.

The questions died in their throats.

Reporters froze, stunned.

The woman walking toward the glass doors of Blackwood Enterprises was not someone you attacked without bleeding for it.

Shoulders square. Chin high.

Eyes cold. Unreadable.

I didn't speak.

Because goddesses don't explain themselves.

But I didn't flinch.

My heels touched the marble pavement with a crisp rhythm, slicing through the noise like a blade. 

My black coat fluttered gently behind me as if even the wind knew better than to touch me directly. 

My face remained blank, no frown, no smile, no irritation.

Just poise.

Just silence.

Just power.

Each step I took silenced another question, until all that remained was the sound of camera shutters and stunned disbelief.

 No security ushered me. No assistant shielded me. I walked alone.

Because I didn't need anyone.

And when I reached the front doors, the building itself seemed to inhale, then open to me like it knew its queen had returned.

I stepped inside.

The glass doors shut behind me, sealing the chaos outside like a storm locked away.

Inside, it was all tension and whispers.

And then the HR team came rushing forward—three of them, red-faced and jittery. 

The manager, a balding man named Darrell, nearly stumbled over his own shoes to keep up with me.

"Ms. Blackwood!" he called, hurrying to walk beside me as I strode through the lobby.

"We've been monitoring the media since 6 a.m. The news has gone viral, hashtags are trending, and people are calling for answers. Some are accusing the company of a toxic environment, some are digging into your past board decisions, and—"

I didn't stop walking.

"Ms. Blackwood," another woman from HR added nervously, 

"We really recommend issuing a formal press statement. At least something to soften the tone, maybe acknowledge the concerns—"

My eyes flicked sideways, razor-sharp. The woman immediately fell silent.

My pace didn't falter, not even when Darrell added, more cautiously,

"There's talk of involving external counsel if it escalates. The PR department is on standby for damage control. We just need direction, ma'am."

I didn't answer.

And that silence said everything.

I reached the elevator and pressed the button with a single, gloved finger.

And that was when I saw him

Rhys.

Standing off to the side near the far corridor, watching.

No expression. No notebook in hand. Just him, tall and calm and still.

He hadn't spoken a word since I arrived.

But his eyes met mine, and stayed there.

For the first time that morning, I paused.

My gaze locked with his, unreadable. Cold. But not dismissive.

Rhys didn't look away either.

It lasted only a second. Two, maybe.

Then the elevator doors opened.

I turned away without a word and stepped inside.

The HR team hesitated.

"Should we—?"

"She doesn't need us right now," one of them murmured.

And up I went, alone.

Because Carmen Blackwood didn't run from war.

She created it.

And she would answer those headlines, not with apologies.

But with ruin.