Chapter 1
Alisha
I’ve been running for the past 40 minutes, trying to escape into a world where I could be whoever I want and do whatever I wish for. But the sun slipping through the torn edges of the clouds, found me with quiet persistence, simply whispering I can’t truly outrun this complicated world or the duties bestowed upon me.
The sharp beep of the treadmill cut through my thoughts, a mechanical reminder that escape had a time limit. I stepped off slowly, lungs burning, sweat cooling against my skin.
Heading towards the shower to rinse it away but it did nothing to my thoughts though.
Eagerness. Nervousness. Restlessness
Today was not just another day.
Two years of my life’s work lay waiting to be judged, scrutinised by a panel of experts from companies that carried reputations larger than their open-mindedness. Men who had already rejected my idea four times.
Men who had the audacity to tell me that getting this far, as a girl, was an achievement in itself as though my presence in that room was the exception, not my work.
I didn’t know what I would do if they reject me this time.
This is my last chance.
I couldn’t afford mistakes—not now, not after everything it had taken to get here. Every thought, every movement felt deliberate, as if I’m preparing not just my work, but myself.
Give your best and leave the rest to the universe, my father always said.
I let myself hold on to these.
I hoped out of the 5 min shower, dressed quickly, gathering my documents and laptop. In the kitchen, breakfast is waiting—French avocado toast and a freshly brewed espresso, still warm. I paused for a second, tempted. Then I glanced at the time.
Not today.
I left it untouched and hurried out.
My driver was already waiting. I slipped into the back seat, barely acknowledging anything around me as I opened my laptop, scanning through the presentation one last time. Every slide had to be perfect. Every word had to land.
Traffic dragged, slower than usual, each red light stretching my patience thinner. By the time I reached the office, I was already late.
Zer is waiting near the elevator.
Of course he is.
He held out an espresso, meeting my gaze with those piercing blue eyes, the dark circles beneath them making it clear he hadn’t slept enough. I glanced at it, then at him. Refusing wasn’t an option - not with him. Not today. I took it, the warmth grounding me more than I expected.
It never failed to unsettle me how easily he can read me —anticipating what I needed before I admitted it to myself.
“They’ll be here in twenty,” he said, falling into step beside me, as we stepped into the elevator.
I avoided the usual route to my office, not ready to face the quiet curiosity of my employees. Instead, I took the private lift—direct access, no interruptions.
Zer trailed a step behind, his voice low as he walked me through the arrangements for their arrival and the meeting.
Everything is in place.
All that was left… is me.
(After 20 minutes)
The conference room is colder than I expected.
Or maybe that is just them.
Ten men in late 40’s wearing black suits sat there waiting, their posture relaxed, their attention already elsewhere; as though this meeting were something to get through, not something to consider. The kind that didn’t need to speak its assumptions aloud
I stepped in anyway.
I greeted them. Calm. Measured.
I had studied their past objections, memorized their patterns, anticipated their questions before they could form them. Strengthened every argument. Backed each claim with data so precise it left no room for doubt
I had done everything right.
And still—
I could see it.
The quiet dismissal in their eyes. The impatience they didn’t bother to hide. The subtle way they leaned back, as if creating distance between themselves and what I was about to say.
They had already decided.
I felt it—sharp and immediate—trying to creep into my thoughts, trying to settle somewhere deeper.
I didn’t let it.
I began.
The presentation moved exactly as I had planned.
Each slide flowed into the next. Each point landed clean, supported, deliberate. My voice stayed steady, Even when they shifted in their seats. Even when their attention flickered away for a second too long.
I didn’t rush.
I didn’t falter.
I didn’t give them the version of me they were expecting.
When I finished, the room fell quiet.
For a moment - just a moment - it felt like something had shifted. But nothing changed in reality.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for your time,” I said. “The floor is open for discussion.”
That’s when it begin.
The same questions.
The same tone.
The same carefully worded doubt, wrapped in professionalism just enough to make it sound reasonable.
I answered them all.
Every single one.
But it didn’t matter.
Because this isn’t about answers.
It never had been.
Two years.
Two years of work—mine, my team’s—compressed into something they could dismantle in minutes.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just… steadily.
Like it had been inevitable all along.
Then it ended, just with a shift in posture. A closing of folders. Chairs sliding back.
I stood anyway.
I shook their hands one by one, my grip firm, my expression neutral.
They smiled. Polite. Distant.
“Good effort.”
“Impressive, really.”
“You’ve done well to come this far.”
I nodded.
As if that is what I had come for.
The room emptied quickly after that.
Just like that.
They left.
And the silence they left behind felt heavier than anything they had said.
I didn’t move immediately.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the screen that still displayed the final slide.
Everything was still there.
All of it.
Untouched.
And yet—
Gone.
The moment the door closed behind them, the room shifted.
The ground beneath me felt like it moved.
And then I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I sank down, the weight of everything crashing at once, and the tears came—sharp, uncontrollable, breaking through every ounce of composure I had forced myself to hold. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready to face anyone. Not like this.
to be continued
