Chapter 17
YARA
The bastards are smart. I’ll give them that.
There’s even a bouquet on the desk when I walk in. White lilies and ice-pink roses, sleek and soulless. A note tucked between the petals: “For the new Vice Chair—here’s to a bright future. – D.T.”
I crumple it and toss it in the trash without a second glance.
The title sounds important. Vice Chair. It used to mean something—did mean something, when it belonged to my father, when it came with power, responsibility, real teeth. Now it’s just a collar. Velvet-lined, sure, but still tight around my neck.
Tidball made the offer himself. Smiling across the long oak table like he hadn’t orchestrated my complete political decapitation just days before.
“Yara,” he said, palms open, voice oozing concern, “the optics are messy right now. There’s too much scrutiny, too many external eyes. You’ve endured so much. This is a chance to breathe. To focus on legacy—not liability.”
Translation: Sit down. Smile pretty. Stay out of the way.
I’d like to tell him I flipped the table, or slapped the smug right off his face. But I didn’t. I smiled. I nodded. I accepted with all the grace and polish CY8 groomed into me from the time I was old enough to sit still in board meetings. I looked him dead in the eye and thanked him.
Then I excused myself to the bathroom and threw up in the marble sink.
I know what this is. It’s a muzzle. A pretty, photogenic one, tailored to my face.
They keep me close, drape me in silk and smiles, trot me out when the cameras flash so the shareholders don’t panic.
So the public still thinks the heiress is onboard.
And in return, they strip away every scrap of control I have left.
I don’t fight it. Not openly. Not yet.
I play the part.
I sit in meetings and sip overpriced espresso while my department heads report to him. I shake hands with senators and foreign dignitaries who used to treat me like a peer and now call me “darling” with that soft, condescending pity that makes my teeth ache.
I smile. I pose. I let them think I’ve rolled over.
Every smile feels like poison.
But behind the smiles, I start to prepare.
It starts small. A stray file downloaded here, a meeting transcript saved there.
I log in late at night—no one questions it; insomnia is the grief response everyone expects.
I copy everything to a secure drive Grau gave me before everything went to hell.
The one he said to use only when I was ready.
I wasn’t ready then.
I am now.
Because here’s the thing no one seems to remember: I was born into this. Raised in boardrooms and black-tie negotiations. Groomed to wield power like a scalpel. And I might’ve lost the upper hand, but I didn’t lose my mind.
I watch Tidball like a hawk. Every move, every meeting, every public statement. He plays the benevolent overseer, the humble steward of my father’s legacy. He speaks of preserving values, of stability, of continuity. The press eats it up. Investors are thrilled. CY8’s stock soars.
And behind the scenes, he bleeds the company dry.
Diverts assets. Cancels defense contracts.
Puts long-time staff on administrative leave without cause.
I watch department after department fold into shadow subsidiaries with vague missions and unlimited budgets.
I ask questions. He gives me reassurances.
I nod and file them away, every lie a thread in the noose I’m slowly weaving.
He thinks I’m harmless now.
He has no idea.
Sometimes I catch my own reflection in the glass walls and barely recognize myself.
Not because I look different—I don’t. Same red lips.
Same sharp suit. Same perfectly curled hair.
But there’s something in my eyes now. Something colder.
Harder. Something that says: I know exactly what you’ve done, and I’m not done with you.
In every quiet corner. Every flicker of unease I catch on Tidball’s face when certain files go missing. I know Grau’s out there, circling the perimeter like a wolf biding his time.
I’m not afraid.
Not of him.
Not anymore.
Because if this is war—and it is—then I’ve picked my side.
And I’m done waiting to be rescued.
Some nights, I can still hear my father’s voice in my head.
Not the warm version from childhood, reading to me under solar lamps or teaching me how to fold trade proposals like puzzles.
No, the other one. The clipped, deliberate tone he used when I started shadowing him at twelve.
“Never let them see you bleed, Yara. They’ll drown in it. ”
I used to think he meant investors. Or rivals. Or press vultures with their predatory grins.
But he meant people like Tidball.
He meant people like me.
Because now, every smile I fake feels like a slice to the inside of my cheek. Every polite nod during board meetings feels like swallowing glass. And the worst part? I’m good at it. So godsdamned good at pretending that sometimes I scare myself.
That used to bother me.
Now… I’m not so sure.
Tidball’s starting to sweat. Not visibly—he’s too polished for that—but I know the signs.
The way his voice tightens a little too much when I enter a room.
The faint twitch in his jaw when he sees me take notes.
The subtle delays in information reaching my terminal.
He’s clocking me now. Realizing I’m not just window dressing.
And gods help me, I like it.
I know what that says about me.
I know what my father would say, if he were still alive to say it.
You’re walking a knife’s edge, Yara. One misstep, and you’re no better than the men you despise.
But I’m starting to think the edge is the only place I’ve ever belonged.
In quiet moments—when the office is empty and the city’s low hum presses against the glass walls like a living thing—I sit at my desk, fingers hovering over files Grau passed me through encrypted channels, and I feel it building. Not just anger. Not grief. Resolve.
It’s not about revenge anymore.
It’s about reclamation.
My name. My legacy. My goddamn life.
I open a file marked “Confidential – Internal Transfers.” It’s full of line items, shell companies, backdoor contracts. I recognize some of the names—shadow entities Tidball used to frown at in public while feeding them assets behind the scenes.
I don’t even flinch anymore.
The first time I read something like this, I cried. Real, shaking, gut-punched sobs alone in the dark. The kind of tears that tasted like betrayal and salt and shame.
Now I just breathe.
And copy.
It’s like a ritual—each file tucked away, another stone stacked in the wall I’m quietly building around myself.
Grau doesn’t ask me to do it.
He doesn’t push.
He doesn’t need to.
He’s always there, on the periphery. A shadow in my doorway some nights. A quiet breath behind me when I leave the office late. Not intruding. Not interfering. Just present.
And somehow, that makes it easier.
It took me a while to understand that he’s not trying to corrupt me. Not turning me into some mirror of his violence. No, what he’s doing is simpler—and more dangerous.
He’s uncovering me.
Layer by layer.
Until I’m staring at a version of myself I never knew existed. One that doesn’t flinch. One that doesn’t apologize. One that looks in the mirror and sees a woman shaped by fire, not broken by it.
I’m not just surviving.
I’m evolving.
It scares me.
It empowers me.
It defines me.
The next morning, Tidball summons me to the executive lounge. It’s all soft lighting and handcrafted whiskey and chairs designed to make you feel like you’re sinking into luxury. He offers me a drink like we’re old friends.
“Yara,” he says, swirling amber liquid in a glass. “You’ve been… occupied.”
I smile like it doesn’t hurt. “Just catching up.”
“Of course. We all grieve differently.” He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “But I do hope you’ll remember that we’re on the same team.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, sharp and humorless. “Are we?”
His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s tension in his grip. A little too tight. “I’d hate to see you distracted. Or pulled into something... unwise.”
I sip my espresso and tilt my head. “Is that a threat, Donovan?”
His name lands like a slap. I never use it. He knows it.
He smiles again, but it’s thinner now. “Just friendly advice.”
I lean in slightly. Lower my voice. “Then here’s mine. Don’t underestimate the people you think you’ve tamed. They tend to bite.”
His eyes narrow, but he says nothing. I stand, brushing invisible lint from my skirt.
“Lovely chat. Let’s not do it again.”
By the time I reach my office, my heart is pounding.
But I don’t regret a word.
That night, Grau waits for me in the apartment—my real one, not the penthouse PR insists I maintain downtown. He’s on the balcony, back to me, eyes fixed on the skyline like he’s reading secrets in the stars.
I don’t speak.
Just press my forehead to his back, breathe in the heat and strength of him.
“You’re changing,” he murmurs.
“Am I?” My voice is too thin, too frayed.
He turns slowly, cradling my face in calloused hands. “Not breaking. Not hardening. Becoming.”
I close my eyes.
Because that? That might be the most terrifying thing anyone’s ever said to me.