Masuk“They think they can break me?” I muttered, voice sharp, eyes narrowed as I stared at my reflection in the black glass of the city skyline outside my window. The office lights of the high-rise across from mine twinkled, a mockery of the world I had just decided to take by storm. My heart still ached, still throbbed for Drake Peterson, but the ache was no longer paralyzing—it was fuel.
I leaned over my desk, hands shaking slightly as I opened the first of the encrypted files I had requeste“Who the hell even is Mendoza?”I froze mid-step, my hand hovering over the boutique’s glass door, as the words echoed through the chic SoHo showroom. The voice belonged to a sharply dressed woman in her forties, a buyer whose reputation had built and broken careers in a single lunch meeting. She clicked her pen deliberately against her pristine notebook, the sound like a metronome counting down my professional death.I swallowed, forcing my expression into calm professionalism. “I’m Sabrina Mendoza,” I said, letting my voice steady itself even though my heart was hammering like a drum in my chest. “I represent my own line, Mendoza Luxe. I believe our pieces could complement your boutique perfectly.”Her laugh wasn’t just dismissive—it was the kind that carved spaces in your soul, that made you question your existence in front of her. “Complement?” she repeated, rolling the word as if it were sour on her tongue. “Sweetheart, you’re unknown. I don’t do unknowns. I do what sells. And I
“Do you trust me?”“I have to,” I whispered back. “Because if I don’t, this whole thing falls apart.”Aria stared at me across the cluttered worktable, gemstone tweezers frozen mid-air. Her eyes searched my face, not for doubt—but for fire.“Then stop holding back.”The words struck harder than she probably intended.I inhaled slowly, my fingers tightening around the charcoal pencil. The sketchpad beneath my hands was already crowded with half-formed ideas: sharp-edged necklaces, broken-chain bracelets, imperfect rings that looked like they had survived a war. But none of them were enough.None of them felt like me.Not yet.“Okay,” I said hoarsely. “Then I’m going to design something I’m scared to admit exists.”“Good,” Kai muttered from his station. “Fear makes better art.”Theo rolled his chair closer, eyes bright behind his glasses. “This is it. This is the collection that defines Mendoza Luxe.”The name still made my heart stutter.Mendoza Luxe.Mine.No longer Drake’s shadow. No
“You’re late.”“I know,” I said breathlessly, shoving the glass door open with my shoulder while juggling three boxes of materials. “But the supplier changed the drop-off time and—”“And you still look like you fought a dragon,” Lila finished, eyeing my smudged jeans and paint-streaked hands.“Details.”The small office smelled like fresh wood, metal dust, and ambition. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, illuminating half-built tables, scattered tools, and sketches taped messily across the walls. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t polished. But it was alive.My dream had a heartbeat now.And today, I was about to bring in the people who would help keep it alive.Three chairs stood in front of my desk—mismatched, secondhand, slightly crooked. I’d spent hours arranging the space to look professional despite our limited budget. The chipped table now gleamed. The walls were freshly painted. Even the cheap coffee machine hummed optimistically.“You nervous?” Lila asked, leaning against
“So this is where I either rebuild my life… or lose myself completely.”The words slipped from my lips as I stood on the cracked pavement, staring at the row of aging buildings lining the street. My breath fogged the chilly morning air, heart thundering against my ribs. The city hummed around me—honking cars, distant sirens, the low buzz of people chasing their own dreams. But for a moment, everything narrowed to this single stretch of road.This single decision.Lila stood beside me, hands tucked into the pockets of her oversized coat, eyes scanning the neighborhood with mild suspicion. “You look like you’re about to either conquer the world or set it on fire.”“Maybe both,” I muttered.The buildings weren’t glamorous. No glass towers. No marble lobbies. Just brick walls, dusty windows, faded signs. But there was something raw and honest about this place—like it wasn’t pretending to be more than it was.And neither was I anymore.We walked slowly, s
“Why does heartbreak always sound like a dare instead of an ending?”The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them, whispered into the stillness of my tiny apartment like a confession meant for the walls. The city outside hummed with distant traffic, but inside, everything felt suspended—breath, time, pain, hope—caught between what I had lost and what I didn’t yet know how to build.I stared at the blank sketchpad in front of me.Blank, just like my future.Or maybe… not.I exhaled slowly and picked up my pencil.My fingers trembled. Not from fear—no, from pressure. The kind that came when your soul was crowded with too many emotions and nowhere to pour them. Rage. Loss. Love. Obsession. Grief. Longing. Desire. The ghost of Drake Peterson’s voice still echoed in my head, his last cold words looping endlessly.Take the money. Leave. Disappear.So I did.I left his world.But I didn’t leave myself.The pencil touched paper.A soft, hesitant line curved across the page. Then an
“Cancel the buyback....now.”The words left my mouth like a gunshot, sharp enough to slice the room in half. Every executive at the long obsidian table froze. Screens along the wall flickered red—numbers bleeding, graphs collapsing in real time. Peterson Luxe, my empire, was finally showing visible fractures.“Drake,” my CFO said carefully, voice tight, “if we cancel now, the market will interpret this as panic.”“They already are,” I snapped. My fingers curled against the tabletop, veins standing out like cables under skin. “I won’t pour blood into a fire Emma lit.”No one said her name out loud. They didn’t need to. She was everywhere—behind the sudden sell-offs, the anonymous whistleblower memos, the perfectly timed leaks to financial media. Emma Brookes didn’t attack with knives. She used silk gloves and poison.A junior analyst swallowed. “Sir… the London funds just pulled out.”There it was. Another pillar gone.I leaned back slowly, forcing my face into stillness. Control. That







