Chapter 15

By the time Emilia stepped out of her car and into the gleaming lobby of Stone tech, the illusion was already stitched into place.

Hair smoothed. Heels sharp. Blazer tailored to perfection.

She moved like a woman in command—calm, unshaken

But beneath it all, her heart still beat out of rhythm.

The memory of Sebastian's hands lingered on her skin. The way he had looked at her—like she was something real. Not a surname. Not a position.

Her assistant, Tasha, was waiting by the elevator, tablet in hand and tension brimming behind her bright professionalism.

"Good morning, Miss Stone," she said, falling into step as they entered the lift. "You've got Legal at ten, the advisory board at noon, and a message from Mr. Alan Voss—he wants a closed-door meeting this afternoon."

Emilia didn't flinch, but she felt the ripple. Alan Voss: senior board member, her father's former right hand. Old-school. Sharp-tongued. Never subtle with his disdain.

"Did he say what for?"

"Only that it's urgent. And personal."

Personal.

Emilia's jaw tightened slightly, but she nodded. "Push my three o'clock. Tell him I'll make time at four."

The elevator doors slid open onto the executive floor—high glass walls and sharp gazes. Every face turned, every conversation paused.

She was no longer just the heiress in mourning. She was the woman who had dared to lead.

She walked through them all without blinking.

Inside her office, she closed the door and leaned against it for a single, unguarded breath. One small moment to feel.

The echo of last night still lived in her chest. In her lips. In the ache between her hips.

But more than that—what lingered was how safe she'd felt. How quiet the world had become in Sebastian's arms. As if, for once, she didn't have to prove anything to anyone.

Then, the phone on her desk buzzed. Her armor slid back into place.

There was no room for softness now.

Not here. Not yet.

----

The glass conference room at the end of the executive wing was empty when Emilia arrived. But that didn't last long.

Alan Voss walked in precisely at four o'clock, silver-haired and deliberate, his tailored suit speaking volumes before he even opened his mouth.

He didn't offer a greeting—only a nod, then settled into one of the leather chairs at the head of the table as if it still belonged to him.

Emilia remained standing.

"Let's not waste time," she said coolly. "What's this about?"

Alan folded his hands over a worn leather portfolio. "The press conference, for starters. Unapproved. Unvetted. Unwise."

Emilia arched a brow. "And yet necessary."

"To whom?" His gaze sharpened. "The shareholders? The board? Or to your own sense of rebellion?"

"I'm not here to rebel, Mr. Voss," she replied evenly. "I'm here to lead. And clean up the rot."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Your father knew how to temper boldness with strategy. He knew when to be silent."

Emilia took a step forward, her heels a sharp click against the marble floor. "And that silence is what almost destroyed this company."

That stung. His jaw tightened.

She pressed on, voice steady. "What I said publicly was carefully measured. I protected our reputation and reestablished accountability. If you or any board member wishes to contest my authority, do it openly. But don't cloak it in concern."

Alan stood now too, slower than her, but with practiced presence.

"I don't contest your title, Emilia. Only your judgment. The board will want results—real ones. Not just performance at a podium."

"I'm already giving them results," she said firmly. "Let me do the job my father trusted me to do. Or step aside and watch someone else save this legacy."

They stared at one another, the weight of two generations colliding in silence.

Finally, Alan slid the portfolio across the table. "Then prove it. The Prague deal—you'll need to close it in ten days. Cleanly. No leaks, no stumbles."

She picked it up without hesitation. "Consider it done."

He gave a faint nod. "Then for now… you still have my vote."

As he left the room, Emilia remained by the table, eyes fixed on the door.

She had won this round. But the war was just beginning.

And somewhere beneath the calm exterior, a small part of her longed for the one place that didn't feel like a battlefield.

Sebastian's arms.