VICTORIA'S POV
There are three kinds of women in the corporate world.
The ones who wait for power.
The ones who chase it.
And the ones who already look like they own it — even if they don't.
I used to be the third kind.
There's a rhythm to power — a quiet hum that lives in the walls of this building.
You can hear it if you stand still enough.
The shuffle of heels, the soft chime of the elevator, the careful tone people use when they say Mr. Voss.
I've memorized that rhythm. I built part of it.
And for years, it belonged to me.
Until she came.
Amara Voss.
The first time I heard her name, I laughed.
Not because it was funny — because it was absurd.
Voss.
The name that should have been mine, if timing, ambition, and pride hadn't all turned traitor.
When I finally saw her, I understood why everyone couldn't stop whispering.
She didn't look powerful. She didn't even try to.
No designer armor, no loud voice, no attempt to impress.
She just existed — calmly, confidently — like the storm didn't scare her because she'd already survived worse.
And somehow, that made me hate her more.
There's a specific kind of cruelty in watching someone live the life you once imagined — and doing it better.
She doesn't try to control Alexander. She doesn't chase his approval.
She just is.
And that… shakes him.
I see it in the way his eyes follow her unconsciously, even when he's pretending not to care.
In the silence between them — a silence heavy enough to drown in.
Once, that used to be our silence.
The kind born from shared work, late nights, and mutual hunger for success.
But ours had edges.
Theirs has fire.
I can't decide what hurts more — losing his attention, or realizing I was never the exception I thought I was.
Still, I smile. I wear my armor — a perfect dress, a perfect face.
Control is a habit I refuse to break.
So when I approach her that morning, I do it like a performance.
I compliment her posture, her dress, her new title — every word dipped in poison and perfume.
She smiles, that infuriating, steady smile.
And then she looks me dead in the eye and says,
"Thank you. But I don't need guidance — just cooperation."
The world tilts for half a second.
Because it's not arrogance. It's strength. Quiet. Steady. Unapologetic.
I leave with my chin high, pretending her words didn't bruise.
But when I catch my reflection in the elevator mirror, my own eyes betray me — too sharp, too bright, too tired.
And for the first time, I ask myself a question I don't want the answer to:
What if she's not temporary?
What if she's the woman who finally teaches Alexander Voss how to feel again?
I press my lips together until they stop trembling.
I tell myself I don't care.
I remind myself I'm Victoria Hayes — the woman who never breaks, who turns pain into strategy.
But deep down, where I keep the truth buried beneath ambition and perfume,
I already know —
I'm not the storm anymore.
She is.