The whore from the countryside

"Watch your tongue, Stephanie. You don't want to offend Miss Deeva," Mr. Chin warned, his voice tight with barely suppressed panic. He dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, his eyes darting nervously between Stephanie and me.

Stephanie scoffed, her perfectly painted lips curling into a sneer. "What's so special about Miss Deeva? It's not as if she's a big name. She's just and would always be a local pumpkin from the countryside, and a whore at that who loved to seduce men just to climb her way to the top."

The words hung in the air, laced with malice. A muscle ticked in my jaw, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I laughed, a short, sharp sound that cut through her tirade.

"If that's what you think, Stephanie, it's okay by me," I said, my voice deliberately light. "Besides, I don't have time for your nonsense." I turned to walk away, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a bothersome fly.

Her face flushed crimson. "How dare you!" she shrieked, her voice rising in pitch. "How dare you refer to me as a whore!"

I paused, turning back to face her, a flicker of amusement in my eyes. "You just watch and see, Olivia. In a second, I'll make the Deev family chase you out of this estate." She snatched her phone from her purse, her fingers stabbing at the screen as she dialed a number. The air crackled with anticipation.

A few seconds later, Clinton's phone rang. He glanced at the screen, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he answered. "Hello, Miss Sharon. To what do I owe this call?" He met my eyes, a silent question passing between us.

I watched as he listened, his expression remaining carefully neutral. "Sorry, Miss Sharon, I can't. It's an order from Miss Livia herself to let Olivia stay at the estate without any payment or disturbances. You can confirm it yourself." He ended the call, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he looked at Stephanie.

Her face was a mask of disbelief and fury. The phone trembled in her hand. "You're just as powerless as I see," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "You're useless, just like the letter 'k' in 'kneel'. Get out of my front." I turned and walked towards the estate gates, leaving her sputtering in my wake.

I could feel her eyes burning into my back, along with the security guard, Samuel, who watched me with a mixture of resentment and confusion. But their annoyance was irrelevant. I had more important things to worry about.

The moment I stepped inside the estate grounds, my own phone buzzed. It was Sharon.

"Senior sis," I said, answering the call.

"Why go against the Boyd family and accommodate Mr. Boyd's ex-secretary?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Do you even know what she did?"

I smiled, a wry twist of my lips. *If only she knew I was the ex-secretary she was talking about.* How easily they judged, how quickly they condemned without hearing my side of the story.

"I know what I'm doing, senior sis," I said, my voice calm and reassuring. "You can't just judge based on a one-sided story. Don't be blinded by their claims. There's no concrete evidence to prove she did all those things they claimed she did. And trust me, I'm still investigating the matter between her and them." I glanced at my watch. Today shopping for new clothes has been caimagined. "Okay, Livia," she said before hanging up.

The Boyd family and the Deev family held similar weight in the social hierarchy, but when it came to individual power, Mr. Boyd couldn't hold a candle to me.

He might be famous, tagged as the richest, but he could never truly measure up. It was either we were equals, or I surpassed him. I pushed open the heavy oak door of my apartment, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood washing over me, a small comfort in the brewing storm.

I knew tomorrow would bring another wave of fabricated stories, another attempt to tarnish my name. As if on cue, my phone buzzed again, this time with a notification. It was a blurry image of me and Clinton, walking together, heads bent in conversation.

Below the image, the headline screamed: "She probably climb her way up through Clinton Belton".

Another headline followed: "The whore from the countryside".

"Wow," I murmured, a dry amusement coloring my voice. "That was much earlier than I imagined." I tossed my phone onto the plush velvet sofa, the glow of the screen illuminating the intricate details of the Persian rug beneath my feet. The game had begun. And I was ready to play.