Chapter 9

Alaya sat stiffly in the back seat of the sleek black Rolls Royce, eyes fixed on the massive glass building ahead — Westwood Couture Headquarters.

The logo glinted at the top of the skyscraper like a crown. The crown was hers now.

She inhaled slowly, the hum of anxiety riding just beneath her skin. Her fingers flexed once on her lap, then relaxed.

Beside her, Malik watched her closely.

“You good?” he asked.

“I’m breathing,” she replied.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, they were instantly swarmed. Flashing lights strobed against the tinted windows, and the muffled roar of a crowd pressed in on all sides. Reporters shouted questions. Protesters held up signs. Security guards were practically wrestling people back from the vehicle.

Malik whistled low.

“Wow,” he said, impressed. “Even Darius didn’t pull this kind of crowd.”

“I’m not here to impress them,” Alaya muttered. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. She opened it herself and stepped out.

Boom.

The crowd erupted.

Bodyguards immediately swarmed her, forming a tight circle. Flashes exploded like lightning. The noise was overwhelming.

“Miss Moore, did you really forge Mr. Westwood’s will?”

“Are you qualified to run a fashion empire, or just sleep with its owner?”

“Did you kill Darius because he refused to marry you?”

That last one hit her like a steel-toed boot to the chest.

She didn’t flinch.

She just walked.

Her heels clicked confidently across the pavement until she reached the safety of the building’s lobby.

The lavish marble reception was as cold as she remembered it — tall glass walls, a golden Westwood crest behind the front desk, and a staff full of faces frozen in forced politeness.

And stares.

So many stares.

Whispers buzzed like flies.

“Is that her?”

“She really showed up.”

“Can’t believe Darius left her the company.”

She ignored them all.

They’re just employees. They answer to me now.

The elevator dinged. Malik stepped beside her and pressed the top floor button.

As they ascended, Malik turned to her. “Look… just a heads-up. These men you’re about to face gave Darius hell. They’re not going to go easy on you. Especially not today.”

Alaya didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the numbers rising on the panel.

“I’m ready.”

The elevator opened.

Malik stepped out first, leading her to the glass-paneled boardroom at the end of the corridor.

He pulled the door open.

Alaya stepped through the threshold and into the room

A long polished table stretched across the room. Ten men sat around it, suited up, silver-haired, and smug. No one stood. No one smiled. They looked at her like she was gum on the bottom of a Louboutin.

She walked to the head of the table.

But she didn’t sit.

“You would stand for Darius if he were the one walking in, wouldn’t you?”

A few eyebrows rose.

One man scoffed. “You’re not Darius.”

“No,” Alaya said, voice rising with steel. “I’m not. But I am the CEO of this company. Whether you like me or not is irrelevant. Whether you think I’m capable is irrelevant. Because your job?” She looked each one of them in the eye. “Your job depends on me.”

Silence.

Then — one by one — the men slowly stood.

Alaya let the moment stay.

Only then did she sit.

“Let’s get down to business.”

The first issue raised came fast and loaded.

“Every quarter, Westwood Couture allocates a sizable marketing budget to Blush Agency,” one of the board members said. “As of last month, nearly $2.2 million was paid out to them for influencer campaigns.”

Alaya narrowed her eyes. “Blush Agency… that’s Janelle’s company, isn’t it?”

The man nodded stiffly. “Yes. She’s contracted to promote the new launch for our fall collection.”

“Cut the funding,” Alaya said flatly.

Another board member raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Cut the contract. End the deal. Redirect the funds to in-house branding and photography. Hire new influencers. Better ones.”

“She’s our face for this season,” someone muttered.

“She’s not my face,” Alaya replied. “And she hasn’t sold a single piece of the collection since it dropped.”

One of the older execs leaned forward. “Who will model the line then?”

“We’ll find someone else,” Alaya said. “Someone who knows how to convert views into revenue. Not someone who spends company money doing TkTk dances in sample gowns.”

A few of them exchanged glances.

Someone coughed awkwardly.

She was winning.

Malik had stepped out halfway through the conversation, but Alaya hadn’t even noticed. She was too focused on cutting the dead weight and making it clear — she wasn’t some puppet girlfriend who landed the position by accident.

She was the one calling the shots now.

Just as she leaned forward to address the next issue, the door cracked open.

Alaya turned.

The secretary stepped inside nervously, clutching a folder.

“Miss Moore,” she said quietly. “Mr. Malik Westwood is requesting your presence outside. He says it’s urgent.”

Alaya glanced back at the board. “Gentlemen,” she said, rising, “I’ll return shortly.”

She stepped out into the hallway, the sound of her heels bouncing against the floors.

Malik was waiting near the windows, a single envelope in his hands.

“What is it?” she asked.

He didn't say anything.

He handed it over silently.

She opened it.

Read it.

A lawsuit.

Filed by Janelle Brooks.

Alaya’s eyes skimmed the contents:

"Claiming forged documentation… undue influence over the deceased… fraudulent gain of assets…"

She looked up slowly. “She’s suing me?”