Chapter 18

Emilia stepped into the building with a quiet poise, her heels clicking confidently, her expression unreadable as always. But beneath the surface, something had shifted.

She felt lighter.

It was strange to notice the change in herself—like her skin fit better or her breath came easier. She hadn't told anyone where she'd gone the night before, and no one dared to ask. Her team greeted her with cautious nods, their eyes flickering with curiosity and quiet admiration after the press conference.

The whispers that followed her didn't sting anymore. She let them come.

Inside her office, fresh flowers sat on her desk. White peonies. No note. No name. Just the unmistakable softness of thoughtfulness that curled her lips into a faint smile. She didn't need to guess who sent them.

"Welcome back, Ms. Stone," Tasha, her assistant, said, stepping in behind her with a tablet full of updates. "There's a meeting scheduled in thirty minutes with the executive board. Everyone's waiting for a direction."

"Then let's give them one," Emilia replied calmly, removing her coat and smoothing her navy-blue blouse, tailored and commanding. "Any fallout from the conference?"

"Minimal. If anything, your transparency won the public's sympathy. Shareholders are quiet but watching. You've bought yourself a little time."

A little time.

It wasn't much—but it was enough.

As she sat at her desk, Emilia's gaze flicked toward her phone. No messages. No missed calls. Still, her thoughts wandered to the warmth of Sebastian's arms, the way his fingers had brushed against her skin like a vow. She shook the memory away. Not because it wasn't welcome, but because it was too easy to get lost in it.

And she didn't have the luxury of softness today.

She clicked open her laptop, scanning through the company's most recent financials and internal correspondence. A few red flags still lingered. Department heads with too much power. Strange file access logs. A few board members who had gone conspicuously silent.

The wolves hadn't stopped circling.

But she was no longer a woman pretending to be strong—she was one who had remembered why she was.

"Tell the board," Emilia said to Tasha, standing, "that I'll be leading the meeting. And I expect answers—not excuses."

As the door closed behind her, Emilia glanced one last time at the flowers.

For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel alone. And that was enough to keep her steady for the war that was still to come.

---

The executive boardroom was cold. Not from the air conditioning, but from the tension crawling across the sleek glass table. Emilia Stone walked in with the same confidence she once reserved for charity galas and art auctions. But today wasn't about appearance—it was about control.

The board members had gathered in full: polished suits, composed faces, and subtle glances exchanged like coded messages. At the head of the table sat Charles Whitmore, interim chairman, who had always been polite in public and quietly condescending in private.

Emilia didn't wait to be invited to speak. She took her seat at the head of the table and placed a thick folder in front of her.

"Before we begin," she said, her voice calm but cutting, "I'd like to address a few internal matters."

There was a flicker of unease. She opened the folder, pulled out a printed financial report, and slid it across the table toward one of the senior directors—Gerard Langston.

"This report shows discrepancies in expense allocations—ones that trace back to your department, Gerard."

Gerard blinked, lips parting. "I—I can assure you, Emilia, I have no knowledge of any discrepancies—"

"You're right," she said, flipping to the next page. "You have no knowledge because you've been too busy funneling side contracts through shell companies your cousin runs in Zurich."

The room went still. Not even a throat cleared.

Gerard turned pale. "That's a very serious accusation."

"And one supported by more than a dozen emails and transaction records," Emilia said flatly. "Legal will be in touch."

She turned next to a younger board member—Isla Harven. "You're new. I had high hopes. But you've spent the last three weeks leaking internal projections to the press, haven't you?"

Isla's cheeks flushed. "I—I only—"

"Save it," Emilia interrupted. "You're suspended effective immediately. Security will escort you out after this meeting."

Even Charles Whitmore, who had been lounging comfortably a moment ago, sat upright now.

"What is this, Emilia?" he asked. "A witch hunt?"

She turned to him, her expression steely. "No, Charles. This is housecleaning. For too long, this company has been run by entitlement and games. But my father left this legacy to me, and I won't watch it rot from within."

"You're emotional," he tried. "You're letting personal feelings cloud your judgment—"

"No," she snapped, her voice rising just enough. "What clouds judgment is letting snakes sit at the table while pretending they're allies."

A long silence stretched. One by one, the room seemed to realign, adjusting to this new version of Emilia—sharp, ruthless, and done with diplomacy.

"I've called this emergency board session not just to clean house," she said, softer now but with unshakable strength, "but to rebuild it."

She stood. "New positions will be reviewed. An external audit has already begun. Anyone who has something to hide should resign today. And anyone who thinks I'll be pushed aside the way you did with my father—try me."

With that, she turned on her heels and walked out, leaving silence in her wake.

Outside the boardroom, Emilia exhaled deeply. Her pulse was racing, but she didn't show it. The war had begun—and she wasn't just fighting back.

She was taking the throne.

...