Jennifer knew how to play shadows like strings on a violin.
In sleek designer heels and a charcoal trench coat, she moved through the city with the precision of a strategist—always calculating, always watching. Helen Ross's rise had not just been unexpected. It had been unstoppable.
Jennifer had warned Steven it might happen, but even she hadn't predicted this.
Helen wasn't just successful—she was legendary now.
Her face graced the covers of Forbes, Vogue, and TIME in the same month. Headlines read:
"The Phoenix of Fashion: Helen Ross's Empire Rises from Ashes"
"Power. Poise. Profit: Helen Ross Redefines Elegance and Authority"
She opened Élan's third store in Chicago with a black-tie gala attended by senators, tech moguls, and royalty. Fortune 500 CEOs requested her as a speaker. Art museums displayed her fashion as wearable sculpture.
Every man with power wanted her beside him.
But Helen remained untouchable.
---
Jennifer watched with growing fury.
She leaked another anonymous tip—this time to a political gossip blog—suggesting Helen's fortune had been "built on stolen investment contacts from Steven Ross." The claim was false, of course, but it didn't matter. The suggestion was enough to stir tension.
It didn't work.
Helen's legal team issued a swift, calm statement. Evidence was provided. The rumor dissolved within twenty-four hours.
Even whispers could not stick to her.
Jennifer slammed her tablet shut in frustration.
"Why does nothing touch her?" she hissed to herself.
Because Helen wasn't just admired—she was feared. The way she moved. The way she spoke. Even in silence, she held power. She had become the woman other women studied, and men—especially powerful men—obsessed over.
And that drove Steven mad.
---
At midnight, Steven stood again before the city lights, drink in hand. Valerie had left for the week—claiming "space." He hadn't argued. Her absence was a relief.
But Helen's was not.
She was everywhere and nowhere. On screens. In boardrooms. In his thoughts. Her beauty was sharper now, more defined by confidence and heartbreak. But what gnawed at him more than her power… was her peace.
She had found something he never could: freedom from him.
And now the world wanted her.
Rumors reached him—senators courting her at events. A billionaire from Dubai offering a partnership and a private island. Film directors, luxury tycoons, even political advisors requesting meetings.
Steven felt it like a choke around his throat.
He texted Jennifer again.
> She's slipping through my fingers.
She responded bluntly:
> She already has.
> But you're not the only one who wants her. If you don't act soon… someone else will.
Steven stared at the message. The room felt colder.
He typed:
> Then make her fall. Or bring her to me. Whatever it takes.
He didn't know if he was begging for love—or for possession.
Maybe both.
---
But Helen wasn't watching Steven anymore.
She stood in her private suite above the boutique, overlooking the city she had conquered. Her robe trailed like a whisper over the marble floor. On her desk sat an invitation—a black-tie gala in D.C. The President's cultural committee had named her "Icon of the Year."
She smiled faintly.
There had been offers. Men of wealth. Charm. Influence. But her heart still pulled in one direction.
Sebastian.
His silence was careful, not distant. He respected her space. He still sent notes—quiet ones. Drawings. Memories. A photo of his mother smiling, recovering well.
She knew the world wanted her.
But only one man had wanted her before the world did.
And that was the only kind of love she would ever choose again.
---