The Mask

The boutique's fluorescent lights cast a soft glow over rows of sleek blouses, crisp pantsuits, and tailored coats. The store was modest but curated—everything about it screamed ambition and quiet wealth. Celeste walked slowly between the racks, her fingers brushing over fine fabrics that felt foreign against her skin. Beside her, Maya was already tossing options over her arm like a seasoned personal shopper.

"This one," Maya said, holding up a fitted maroon blazer with gold buttons. "It says 'hire me or regret it.'"

Celeste gave a half-smile, but her eyes kept drifting. A particular mannequin near the back caught her attention. Draped on it was a charcoal-grey dress with sharp lapels, cinched waist, and a cut that promised power without apology. It wasn't flashy. It didn't need to be. It was the kind of outfit worn by women who walked into boardrooms and didn't have to raise their voice to command the room.

She stepped closer, trailing a finger over the fabric.

"Try it," Maya nudged.

Celeste hesitated. Deep down, she already knew—this was the one. The dress didn't just fit her; it belonged to her. Or maybe she belonged to the version of herself it reflected back.

The dressing room mirrors didn't lie. When she stepped out, Maya froze, her mouth parting slightly.

"Okay," Maya said. "Now that's Celeste Moreau."

It felt surreal. For a moment, Celeste didn't recognize the woman staring back at her. Straight shoulders, cold fire in her eyes, elegance layered over steel. She had been invisible for so long, worn down by debt and guilt, crushed by a mother's impossible expectations.

But here she was. Standing tall.

The day stretched on like a dream. They went to a local spa Maya insisted was her "emergency sanctuary." The scent of lavender, the soothing oils, and the warmth of human touch on her skin felt like a strange rebirth. Layers of fatigue were scrubbed away. For the first time in years, Celeste let herself relax.

Then came the haircut. She stared at her reflection in the salon mirror as the hairdresser snipped and shaped. Gone were the tired, uneven ends. Her hair now framed her face with intent. It looked…intentional. Commanding. She didn't just look refreshed. She looked reborn.

They ended the night with late-night milkshakes and fries on a city bench. Maya recounted her latest office drama, doing impressions that had Celeste snorting into her drink.

But beneath the laughter, Celeste felt it—the quiet stirring of something awakening inside her.

When she finally got home, the silence of her apartment wrapped around her like a familiar cloak. The bags in her hand, the clean scent of her hair, the subtle buzz on her skin from a day of care and attention—it all felt new.

She stood in front of the mirror. Slowly, she pulled the power-dress out of the bag and held it up. Her reflection blinked back at her, the room humming with possibility.

This wasn't about a job anymore.

This was about transformation.

Her voice was a whisper, but her gaze didn't waver.

"It's time."

The world wouldn't see the tired girl from a poor home. They wouldn't see the daughter who was never enough or the sister who was always compared. No.

They would see a woman who didn't just wear power—she became it.

Celeste slipped into the dress.

And with each inch, she slipped into the mask she knew she had to wear. Confidence. Precision. Dominance.

She'd cried enough. Broken enough.

Now, she would conquer.

Friday arrived like a storm. Celeste stood in front of her closet, the weight of the day pressing on her chest. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for the dress. The one she had been holding onto for what felt like a lifetime. It wasn't just fabric. It was everything she had worked for. Everything she wanted. The dress would never just be a dress—it would be her ticket to something more.

Maya had texted her twice already, checking in, making sure everything was set. She had promised to call before the interview, but Celeste had told her not to worry. She didn't need anyone holding her hand. She had already put in the work. She was prepared. She had to be.

She slipped into the dress, the fabric tight against her skin. It felt like armor. The transformation was complete. No more doubts. No more hesitation. It was time.

She couldn't help but look at herself in the mirror again. The reflection staring back at her wasn't the same woman who had been crying on her bed only a few days ago. She stood taller. Her eyes were sharp, unwavering. The subtle makeup she had applied accentuated her features, and the light blue eyeshadow made her appear almost cold.

She smiled slightly at herself, knowing she had come a long way.

After one last glance at herself, she grabbed her bag and left the apartment. The walk to the bus stop was short, but it felt like a lifetime. The city around her was already bustling with the Friday morning energy. People were in a rush to get to their destinations. She was no different, except this time, her purpose felt clearer. The interview at Blackridge Global was a big deal. A chance to prove to herself that she didn't have to settle for less. She was going to show them who she really was.

She arrived at the building early. Her heart raced in her chest, but she breathed through it, keeping her composure. The security guard at the door gave her a polite smile before guiding her to the elevators.

The top floor. The penthouse office. The room where all the decisions were made.

Her stomach churned, but she clenched her fists, focusing on the feeling of power she had gained over the past few days.

As she stepped off the elevator, she was greeted by a sleek receptionist who led her to a waiting area. It was all glass and chrome, a little too pristine, a little too perfect for Celeste's liking. But she didn't have time to think about it. She had a job to do.

She sat down, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She could feel the pressure of the moment. The pressure of being here. Of trying to prove that she deserved a seat at the table.

Time seemed to slow down as she waited. The minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Her mind raced with a thousand thoughts, each one more insistent than the last. What if they didn't like her? What if they thought she was too young, too inexperienced? What if they saw through the mask?

But then she remembered the dress. The power it symbolized. She wouldn't let anything shake her.

Finally, the door opened, and a man in a sharp suit stepped out. He gave her a polite nod, and she stood up to follow him into the office.

It was grander than she had imagined, sleek and modern, with a view of the entire city below. The desk in front of her was polished, impressive. The man behind it, clearly in charge.

"Ms. Moreau, please have a seat," he said, motioning to the chair across from him.

She nodded, walking to the chair and sitting down with the same posture she had been practicing all day.

His eyes were assessing as he studied her. Celeste kept her expression neutral, watching him closely. She could sense the power dynamics shifting in the room. He was trying to get a read on her, just as much as she was on him.

"I see you've brought your resume. You have impressive qualifications, Ms. Moreau. Top of your class, several internships. But tell me, why do you want to work here at Blackridge Global?"

She could hear the challenge in his voice. This wasn't just an interview. It was a test.

Celeste straightened her back, looking him squarely in the eyes.

"Because I'm done settling for less," she said, her voice cool and deliberate. "I know what I'm worth, and I know what I can bring to this company. I don't need to prove myself to anyone but me. But I will. And I'll make you realize that hiring me is the smartest decision you'll ever make."

The room was silent for a moment as he studied her. Celeste kept her gaze steady, willing him to understand. She wasn't here to ask for a chance. She was here to take it.

Finally, he nodded, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"You're confident, I'll give you that. We'll let you know soon."

The interview had been brief. Maybe too brief. But as Celeste stood to leave, she knew that she had made her mark. She had shown them who she was.

As she walked out of the building and into the street, the weight of the world seemed a little lighter. She didn't know if she had the job yet. She didn't know if they had been impressed or skeptical. But it didn't matter.

She had done it. She had stepped into a room full of people who didn't know her, who didn't care about her struggles, and she had stood there like she belonged.

It was only the beginning. But Celeste knew one thing: she was going to fight for this. And nothing—nothing—was going to stand in her way.

Celeste stepped out of the glass doors of the interview room, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and relief. The atmosphere in the hallway outside the executive floor was quieter than she expected, but the tension that hung in the air wasn't lost on her. As she adjusted the sleeve of her blazer and turned toward the elevators, the sharp click of heels and hushed, malicious whispers crept into her ears.

"Typical," one voice snickered. "You really think she got an interview with Mr. Leclair just because of her resume? Please. Everyone knows what happened with Alina."

"Exactly," another chimed in. "Sleep your way to the top, I guess. That girl just walked in and got a spot on the list? How convenient."

Celeste froze in place. The low murmurs were unmistakably about her — but they didn't know she was still within earshot. Her fists clenched by her sides as her breath hitched. The words were sharp, coated in the same venom she had tasted before.

Years ago, when she had topped her class in university, the whispers had started there too. Accusations. Gossip. Claims that she must have done something to earn that grade, because how could someone like her possibly deserve it? Her father was gone, her mother was a mess, and she wasn't rich or connected. In their eyes, girls like her couldn't win without cheating.

Her jaw tightened. Her head was screaming to let it go, to just walk to the elevator and disappear. But her body refused to move. Not this time.

She spun on her heel and turned toward the cluster of well-dressed employees, standing near the water dispenser. They froze at the sight of her, their laughter caught in their throats.

"I'm sorry," Celeste said, loud and clear, her voice echoing through the sleek corridor. "Is that really the kind of workplace Blackridge Global is? Where women get labeled for ambition, and talent gets disrespected behind closed doors?"

There was silence. No one moved.

She stepped closer, her heels firm against the marble. Her voice didn't waver.

"You think it's okay to tear someone down because of where she came from or what she's wearing? What proof do you have? Or do you just enjoy being part of the problem because it's easier than being brave?"

One of the women tried to scoff, but Celeste cut in before she could reply. "I don't know who this Alina is. But even if she got here because someone in power saw her potential, that doesn't give any of you the right to spit poison behind her back. If you're so confident you deserve her spot, maybe you should've worked harder instead of spreading gossip."

She didn't raise her voice, but the steel beneath her words silenced them.

Unbeknownst to Celeste, just around the corner, a tall figure stood in the shadows, leaning silently against the wall. Damien Leclair. The man behind the empire. The one she had unknowingly been defending.

He had stepped out of another meeting moments before and had caught the end of her interview from a distance, mildly curious about the sharp-tongued woman in blue. But now, hearing her unwavering defense of someone she didn't even know, something shifted in his expression.

He watched her with narrowed eyes, arms folded, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face. The woman had fire. Not the kind born from desperation or need, but the kind that came from being underestimated too many times.

She had no idea he was listening.

Back in the corridor, Celeste took a breath, letting her voice soften just slightly. "You can look at someone and assume the worst, or you can look in the mirror and ask yourself why their success threatens you so much. Maybe you're not angry at them. Maybe you're just angry that you're still standing in the same place."

She didn't wait for a reply. There was nothing left to say.

Without another glance, Celeste turned away from the stunned group and walked straight toward the elevator. Her posture was tall, shoulders squared, but inside, her pulse still raced.

She pressed the elevator button and stepped in as soon as the doors opened. As they slid closed, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her hands were trembling. She hated how much it still affected her — the old wounds, the memories, the injustice. But she didn't let herself fall apart.

She had stood her ground. She had drawn the line.

Outside, Valerio stood still for a few more seconds, replaying her words in his mind. A slow smirk curved his lips.

"Interesting," he murmured to himself, then turned and walked back toward his office.

Inside the elevator, Celeste leaned back against the cool metal, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel small.