POV: Alexandra Vaughn
My name is Alexandra Vaughn, and in every courtroom I've ever walked into, I've won.
The moment my heels touch marble floors, people move. Not because I'm loud or demanding, I don't need to be. Power speaks quietly, and mine always has. My reputation does the talking long before I open my mouth.
Today was no different.
"Your Honour," I said evenly, hands clasped behind my back, pacing before twelve jurors who looked at me as though I might cross-examine their souls next. "The defense calls it coincidence. I call it consequence. And the evidence agrees with me."
There was a faint murmur in the courtroom, the rustle of papers, the weight of silence that comes before judgment. I felt it like a familiar melody. The hum of victory.
When the verdict came guilty on all counts I didn't smile. I never do. Winning is expected; satisfaction is a luxury I've learned to live without.
As I gathered my notes, I caught my reflection in the courtroom's glass divider: composed, unflinching, flawless. The woman I've spent a lifetime creating. The one who doesn't lose.
Outside, my assistant Noah was waiting, practically vibrating with excitement.
"You were incredible, Ms. Vaughn. That closing argument, I swear, if I were on the jury, I'd have convicted my own mother."
"Good thing you weren't," I replied, glancing at my watch. "Have the press release sent to Chambers. Keep it factual. No adjectives, no emotion. We won, that's enough."
He nodded, scribbling furiously. "Do you ever lose?" I slid on my sunglasses. "Not professionally," I said, and left it at that.
By the time I reached my penthouse, London's skyline was bleeding into twilight, a thousand glass towers reflecting gold. I poured myself a glass of white wine but didn't drink it. The ritual was more habit than pleasure.
My apartment, much like my life, was immaculate. Minimalist décor, cool lighting, one lonely orchid by the window. No clutter. No chaos. No one waiting.
I kicked off my heels, stared out over the city, and exhaled the kind of breath that felt heavier than it should.
People assume power brings fulfillment. They see the accolades, the designer suits, the headlines "Vaughn Wins Again."
What they don't see is the silence afterward. The echo of victory that fades into nothing.
My phone buzzed.
Lydia :Dinner tomorrow? I've got news!
A small smile tugged at my lips. Lydia Hart. My best friend, my opposite, my anchor. We met in law school, I chased perfection; she chased happiness. And somehow, she always found it.
Me:Of course. Where and when?
Lydia :7 PM. The Elara. Dress up, this is big!
The Elara. One of London's most exclusive restaurants. Whatever her "news" was, it wasn't small.
I typed a quick See you then and set the phone down. For the rest of the night, I told myself I didn't care. But the truth? I did. Because Lydia was the only person who reminded me I was human.
And maybe that's why, when everything fell apart later, the guilt cut so deep
The Elara shimmered under soft chandeliers, the kind of place where people wore ambition like perfume. I walked in wearing a black silk dress that matched my mood elegant, detached, untouchable.
Lydia was already seated, a glass of champagne in hand and a grin so bright it could have powered the city.
"Alex!" she squealed, waving me over. "You look stunning!"
"Occupational hazard," I said lightly, taking a seat. "Now, what's this big news that couldn't wait?"
She held up her left hand.
The diamond caught the light like a small, merciless sun.
"I'm engaged!" she said, her voice trembling with joy. "Can you believe it? Damian proposed last night!"
My fingers froze around my glass. "Damian?"
"Damian Cross," she breathed, cheeks glowing pink. "I told you about him! The tech billionaire I met at the charity gala in May? We've been seeing each other for months. He's " she laughed breathlessly "perfect."
The name hit me like a slow, cold wave.
Damian Cross. The man whose empire, CrossTech Industries, shaped half the world's digital infrastructure. I'd seen his face on the cover of Fortune, read his interviews : brilliant, reclusive, unreadable. The kind of man who built and destroyed fortunes before breakfast.
Lydia leaned forward, eyes bright. "You'll love him, Alex. He's a little intense, but you two will get along. He's coming to the engagement party this weekend. Please come. You have to."
I forced a smile. "Of course, I wouldn't miss it."
She beamed, blissfully unaware that something inside me had shifted.
Because somewhere between the champagne bubbles and Lydia's laughter, a thought crept into my mind; quiet, dangerous, uninvited.
What does a man like Damian Cross see in someone like Lydia?
And why did the question feel like jealousy?
That night, back in my apartment, I couldn't sleep. The city below hummed with its usual rhythm, cars, sirens, distant laughter but all I could hear was Lydia's voice echoing in my head: He's perfect.
I'd spent years building a fortress around my heart: steel, logic, control. No man had ever cracked it.
So why did just his name make my pulse race?
I pulled up an old article about him, Damian Cross: The Billionaire Who Hates Attention.
His photo stared back at me: dark hair, sharp eyes, a mouth that didn't smile easily. The kind of face that looked like it had secrets.
The kind of man who could ruin a woman if she let him in.
I closed the tab, but his image lingered in my mind long after.
It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was something dangerous and for the first time in a long while, I didn't want to control it.
The rain started as I turned off the lights: soft, relentless, inevitable.
And somewhere deep down, I already knew
This wouldn't end with a wedding.
It would end with a war.