Layla's Pov The air was soft with spring—warm and just scented enough to feel alive. The garden outside the new Amara Initiative headquarters buzzed with unfiltered life. No flashy press. No perfectly choreographed photo ops. Just people. Real people.Young designers laughed near the fountain, sketchpads balanced on their laps. Parents stood back with misty eyes, watching their children beam with pride. A little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve, pointing excitedly at a mural painted by one of the mentees. Alumni mingled with newcomers, some of them proudly wearing their own designs—threaded with stories of struggle, stitched with the kind of dignity that comes only from fighting to be seen.And I—Layla Blackwood—was finally breathing again.“Mrs. Layla, five minutes,” a staffer whispered behind me, her voice sharp through the crackle of her headset.I nodded but didn’t turn around. My eyes remained on the garden, watching the last of the guests pass through the ornate wrought iron
Layla's Pov The air was soft with spring—warm and just scented enough to feel alive. The garden outside the new Amara Initiative headquarters buzzed with unfiltered life. No flashy press. No perfectly choreographed photo ops. Just people. Real people.Young designers laughed near the fountain, sketchpads balanced on their laps. Parents stood back with misty eyes, watching their children beam with pride. A little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve, pointing excitedly at a mural painted by one of the mentees. Alumni mingled with newcomers, some of them proudly wearing their own designs—threaded with stories of struggle, stitched with the kind of dignity that comes only from fighting to be seen.And I—Layla Blackwood—was finally breathing again.“Mrs. Layla, five minutes,” a staffer whispered behind me, her voice sharp through the crackle of her headset.I nodded but didn’t turn around. My eyes remained on the garden, watching the last of the guests pass through the ornate wrought iron
Layla's Pov The air outside the courthouse felt different.Not just because the lawsuit had been dismissed, but because—for the first time in weeks—I could finally breathe. Truly breathe.There was a crispness to it. A strange kind of stillness, like the world had hit pause for just a second, allowing me to stand in the center of it all and exist without the weight of accusation.Reporters lined the sidewalk like vultures in tailored suits. Microphones were pointed like weapons, and the soft murmur of anticipation buzzed through the crowd like static electricity. I stood tall, chin up, next to Damian. Our hands brushed as if they were strangers too afraid to intertwine.I wasn’t ready for comfort just yet. Not even his. Today, I needed to stand on my own.I looked up at the sky—still gray, still undecided. My heart was thundering in my chest, but my lips barely moved as I whispered, “Thank you.”“Mrs. Blackwood! Layla! How do you feel about the verdict?”The question snapped me back.
Layla's PovThe courthouse smelled like cold marble and nerves. My heels echoed against the floor as I walked into the courtroom, chin high, hands slightly trembling at my sides. Damian was right behind me—Mr. Blackwood—his palm brushing the small of my back. But I needed to do this alone. For myself. For The Amara Initiative. For every young girl watching, wondering if her voice mattered when the world called it too loud, too soft, too late.The room was smaller than I imagined. Less like the scenes from movies, more intimate. A judge in a grey robe, sharp eyes, and the quiet murmur of reporters lining the back benches. The plaintiff sat at the opposite table—a young woman named Mia Greene. She had been one of our applicants. Her eyes were red-rimmed but defiant. Her lawyer, slick-haired and sharp-jawed, was already watching me like I was the villain of his story.The bailiff called the room to order. The judge nodded at me. "Mrs. Layla Blackwood. Please take the stand."I inhaled de
Layla's PovThe moment I stepped onto the stage, the heat of the spotlight hit me like a wall. My palms were damp, my stomach churning, but my spine was straight. Damian walked beside me, his hand a steady anchor at my lower back. He looked like a man made of iron and calm water. I felt like I was about to drown.The room was packed.Journalists. Bloggers. Donors. Angry parents. Former mentees. The livestream red light blinked at the edge of the platform. Every breath I took would be watched. Every word replayed.I stood behind the podium. The microphone stood too tall at first—I adjusted it with a trembling hand.“Good morning,” I began. My voice echoed, strong but human. “My name is Layla Blackwood. And this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”Click. Click. Cameras went off like sniper fire.“I’ve spent the last two weeks being accused of favoritism, of tokenism, of using my platform as a branding opportunity. I’ve been called a fraud, a manipulator, and a hypocrite. And the
Layla's pov The storm inside our home had nothing to do with the weather.No thunder cracked through the sky. No rain battered the windows. But the air felt charged. The silence was electric—just before lightning strikes.Damian slammed the folded newspaper onto the kitchen counter so hard the ceramic fruit bowl rattled. The headline on the front page stared back at me in bold, brutal print:“More Lies Uncovered? Amara’s Legacy Under Siege.”“Enough is enough,” he growled, his voice sharp with fury. “We need to go after them. Legally. Sue for defamation. Find whoever leaked those documents and make them pay.”I sat across from him in silence, my hands wrapped around a coffee mug I hadn’t touched in an hour. The coffee had gone cold. Bitter. Like guilt left out too long.“That won’t fix anything,” I murmured, not looking up.Damian’s eyes narrowed. “It’ll clear your name. It’ll send a message.”I finally met his gaze, weary and unmoving. “It’ll make me look like a spoiled CEO—crying i