Alex POV
The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the downtown conference center, casting long shadows across the marble floor. I stood there, my hands trembling slightly as I gathered my materials—a betrayal of the composure I fought to maintain. The tablet screen flickered as I powered it down, reflecting my face for a moment: flushed cheeks, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes bright with barely contained fury.
Michael Coleman's presence had turned what should have been a triumphant seminar into a battlefield of old wounds. The room still crackled with the electricity of our confrontation, though the young entrepreneurs who'd witnessed it had long since filed out, their whispers trailing behind them like smoke.
My fingers brushed against the smooth leather of my Hermès bag—a gift to myself when Lane International landed its first Fortune 500 client. Everything I owned now, I'd earned. Every single thing.
The click of my heels against the floor echoed
