The morning after the Echo Project launch, the O’Connell estate seemed bathed in soft afterglow. The ballroom was quiet now, the lights dimmed, the tables cleared. What remained were traces of something powerful—an energy that lingered in the air, like the resonance of a perfect note after the music stops.
Lena stood barefoot by the sunroom windows, robe tied at her waist, tea cooling on a side table. The sky was pale blue, the clouds lazy. But her mind wasn’t at ease.
She’d read the headlines already. They were everywhere.
“Lena O’Connell: From Contract Bride to Global Changemaker.”
“Echoes of Empowerment: A New Era for Women’s Innovation.”
“The Rise of a Silent Storm.”
Most of them praised her. Some dissected her past with surgical cruelty. But even the skeptics couldn’t ignore her anymore.
Carson entered with a smile and a stack of printed news clippings in hand. “Forbes just called you the ‘new voice of visionary capitalism.’ That’s not a phrase they throw around lightly.”
Lena sm
