Elara's POV
The car slowed in front of the New York SM Group's main entrance, its black exterior reflecting the morning sun like polished obsidian. Before the engine even settled, my chauffeur hurried around and opened the door.
"Thank you," I said with a soft smile. He bowed, and I stepped out, heels clicking against the concrete.
Today, I wasn't just entering a building.
I was entering my new era. My new kingdom.
I smoothed my cream satin blouse, its fabric hugging my frame perfectly, tucked into a tailored high-waist charcoal skirt. A long camel trench coat rested lightly on my shoulders—unbuttoned, flowing, intentionally dramatic. My legs crossed elegantly in black Louboutin mirror heels, each step echoing confidence. With high class aura. My nails—midnight red—glowed under the morning light, matching my lipstick, a color Ian once banned before we even got to say our marriage vows.
He didn't want other men looking at me with a lustful desire, so I always had to dress simple.
Too late.
Too late for him, too late for the god-damn world.
I adjusted my sunglasses, flipped my sleek, waist-length black hair behind my shoulder, and finally looked up at the towering glass building.
"SM Group," I whispered. "Let's fucking begin."
The glass doors slid open and—
Silence.
Then whispers.
Dozens of employees froze mid-movement, eyes glued to me, like they were staring at something unreal.
"Goodness. Who is she?"
"Oh my God, look at her skin—she's glowing. Beautiful"
"Is she a model? She has the vibe of being a celebrity"
"She must be the new CEO…"
"No way—she's too young to be the CEO."
Their reactions didn't surprise me. Five years ago, I was invisible.
Now, invisibility is impossible.
My heels clicked through the lobby like a countdown, and the air shifted—thick, tense, alive. Sending shivers down their spines.
A voice suddenly called out from behind me, far too loudly:
"CEO Elara!"
The entire lobby gasped.
Like synchronized puppets, everyone straightened and bowed at the exact same time,as if there were somehow programmed to do that.
I hid my smirk, and the employees quickly scurried to their workstations, their movements swift and subservient with a quiet efficiency, their eyes cast downward in a mix of fear and respect.
A woman rushed forward—breathing fast, out of breath, her ponytail slightly crooked. "S-sorry for calling out so loudly, ma'am."
"You're late," I said simply, checking my watch. "It's eight."
Her face drained of color. "I—I sincerely apologize. It won't happen again."
"And your name?" I asked.
"I'm Ivy Green… your personal assistant, assigned by Chairman Sullivan."
"Good." My voice turned crisp. "Then remember this—if you're late again, I won't just fire you. I'll have legal handle it, and you will explain yourself to the chairman," I said, with a cold icy voice.
"Yes, ma'am." Her voice trembled.
I handed her my bag as she led the way to the private elevator. When we reached the fortieth floor, the doors opened and revealed my office—spacious, full glass windows overlooking New York, sunlight pouring in.
"I'll call you when I need something, Ivy," I said. "Send all finalized designs to my email. I'll review everything before the team begins production."
"Yes, ma'am," she bowed and hurried out.
Gently, I placed my bag on the glass desk, sat down in the leather chair, and opened the first folder.
The designs?
Mediocre. Confused. Lacking soul.
I sighed, hearing my children's voices in my mind:
"Always work hard, Mommy."
"Never give up." My motivation. And for a moment, I felt I have a lot of tasks to accomplish.
I lifted the pen but froze as Liam Grant's face flashed into my mind.
The mysterious man with the clean cologne…
The one who covered my mouth to stop me from screaming…
The one who stepped in front to help me escape from Ian without hesitation.
"Who exactly are you?" I whispered.
My phone suddenly rang.
The name glowing on the screen made my heart soften instantly.
Babies.
I answered immediately. "Hello, my sunshine."
"Good morning, Mommy!" three voices chimed together.
I laughed. "Why aren't you in school? It's Monday." They look at me and all giggled.
"Mommyyyy, come on" Emily whined, "it's a holiday in Australia."
"Yeah, Mommy," Noah added proudly, " and what does holiday mean? It means no school."
Claire nodded seriously, "And no school means we get to call you earlier."
Their playful faces filled the screen, and warmth spread through my chest.
"Still," I teased, "learning happens everywhere. Even at home."
"Mommy," Noah rolled his eyes, "we always finish the topic before our teacher teaches it. We'll never let you down."
"We promise," Claire added with a smile.
Emily hesitated. "Mommy… did you meet him yet? Our father"
My smile faded.
"Emily," Noah nudged her off-screen, "we promised not to ask that! You broke the siblings pinky promise. Fuck"
"Hey—language, no cursing one another" I said softly. "And it's okay, sweetheart. It's not wrong to be curious about your dad. But I want you all to safe and I can't bear losing you"
Emily's eyes lowered. "I don't… care about him. Not really. I'm just… wondering."
I swallowed. Hard.
My throat tightened.
"Listen, my loves," I said gently, "your father… he…"
Words failed me.
Claire's small voice filled the silence. "We don't want to make you sad, Mommy."
"I'm not sad," I whispered, wiping a tear quickly. "You just make me feel nostalgic."
"Mommy," Noah suddenly brightened, "Grandpa Sullivan bought me a new video game! And it's awesome!"
"Did he?" I smiled. "Then be good to Grandpa. Respect him, okay?"
I reached for the TV remote, turning it on absentmindedly. The screen blinked to life—and the headline hit me like a slap I tasted blood in reality.
Camila Vale of Vance Fashion Corporation to host live gala addressing last night's scandal.
A cold fire lit inside me.
"Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?" Emily called.
"I'm here," I said, eyes glued to the screen. "Darlings, Mommy has something urgent to do. I'll call you later, okay? I love you."
"We love you too," they said, their voices falling.
"You always hang up first…"
"I promise next time, I won't hang up until you get tired," I said and ended the call.
I stared back at the TV, scoffing.
"So that fucking bitch still has the guts to lie to the world about the crime she knows she committed," I whispered, venom in every syllable.
I picked up the office phone.
"Ivy," I said, voice sharp, "get me an invitation to Camila's gala tonight."
"But ma'am—"
"It's time," I said, cutting her off.
"To pay an old friend a visit."
I hung up.
And smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile.