Protocol Indigo

Zaria

Being a woman in a world ruled by patriarchy is a battle from the day you’re born to the day you die. But being a woman at the head of a company in a field where men hold ninety percent of the power? That’s a war you fight every single day. Blink too slowly, and everything slips away in the space of a heartbeat.

That’s why I stayed anonymous when I built my company. Contracts poured in, our expertise and results spoke for themselves. But the moment the world discovered that a woman was behind the success, the whispers began—the sexist jokes, the dismissive muttering in the corridors—and they haven’t stopped since. How do I face it? Back straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted, and eyes that never stop scanning the room.

“You’re not listening to me.” I glance up at Callum Dray, head of security and tactical operations. He was the first to believe in me.

“What? Of course I’m listening. You were talking about the issue with the new recruits.” He lowers his arms and gives me a look sharp enough to cut. Unlike so many men, we’re capable of multitasking. Unbelievable, isn’t it?

“We need to act. Doubt has no place in our ranks.” Cal is as close as I’ve ever had to a father. He helped me when the rest of the world turned its back. And I’m not ashamed to admit that without him, I wouldn’t be here today.

“That’s why you’re the perfect one to handle it,” I say, giving his shoulder a light tap before stepping into my office. He stays at the doorframe, his shoulder pressed against the wood. He rubs a hand over his face, and for a moment his age shows through.

“I’m not young anymore, Ria. You need to know exactly how I handle things before I—”

“Oh, look. Papers. I need to read this. We’ll talk later.” I slip behind my desk, opening the first envelopes, refusing to hear him talk once again about retirement. He exhales, the sound heavy, before closing the door behind him. I let the papers fall from my hands and spin my chair toward the window. New York sprawls beneath me. I fought so damn hard to sit here, in this seat, with the city at my feet. Proof that with enough will and enough work, anything is possible.

Kingsley Vanguard Industry.

Three words behind everything I hold dear. Three words that mean nothing to most until they’re engraved at the top of a contract. Yet they define me better than my own last name.

Kingsley. A name given out of pity, and out of fear of what might follow. A poisoned gift—forced on me as much as it was withheld. I grew up carrying it like a burden, as if I were an anomaly in a lineage too cold, too obsessed with appearances, too pale... literally. Being known as Alistar Kingsley’s bastard is something I accepted long ago. It barely stings anymore when it’s thrown in my face. On the contrary, I’ve claimed it. Made it mine. Turned it into something greater.

Vanguard. The vanguard. The first line. That’s what I’ve always been. Alone against life. At twelve, I was counting my mother’s chemotherapy pills. At thirteen, I was standing at her grave, rain drenching me as I cried myself hollow. Alone.

Industry. Because in the end it had to be called a business—even though it’s far more than that. KVI is the armor I forged to survive. A protocol refined year after year until it became the empire it is today.

I unlock a drawer with my fingerprint and pull out the stack of anonymous letters I’ve received these past months. The empire I built from nothing is under threat. On each piece of paper, words cut from newspapers form threats that echo in my head all day long.

You think you can play in an arena that isn’t yours? Remember—even queens bleed.

At least they recognize I’m a queen. That’s something.

No one knows about these letters yet. It’s been six months since the first one, always delivered with precision. Left on a chair in my favorite restaurant, taped to my windshield after a quick coffee, tucked beneath my plate at a charity gala. Never by hand. Never from anywhere traceable. I haven’t shown them to Cal. I won’t worry him unless I have to. It isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened. It all began after the article announcing my name as the head of Kingsley Vanguard Industry was published.

Three knocks drag me out of my thoughts. I shove the letters back in the drawer and lock it before allowing the visitor in.

“Miss Kingsley, someone left this for you at reception,” Abigail, my secretary, says as she steps inside. She hands me an envelope, and for a fraction of a second my hand trembles. It’s identical to the others. Except this time, it was delivered in person. Inside my own company.

“Who was it?”

“A boy. Sixteen, maybe. He said he found it on his windshield with our address and your name written on it. A hundred-dollar bill was tucked inside.” I look up just as Callum enters, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t like what he sees, and he knows something is wrong—the shake in my hand gives me away. Without thinking, I tear the envelope open. Photos slide out alongside the letter. Me, at dinner with investors last week. On the phone, my face closed off. Driving home in my car. A dozen snapshots from the last few days.

I feel Callum tense beside me, every muscle locked tight.

“What the hell is this?” His voice is low, dangerous. I think it’s time to explain.