The world looked suspiciously gentle at five-thirty in the morning pinkish sky, quiet city hum, not a single paparazzo dangling from the wrought-iron gate. I stood on the balcony outside my bedroom, mug of black coffee cooling against my palms, and let the fragile hush slip beneath my skin.
Today was board-meeting day. Today I would present Sera Lin's demo, request extra budget, and convince twelve professionally cynical humans that a woman they considered tabloid poison was suddenly an oracle of market growth. Easy, right? Like teaching sharks to appreciate tofu.
Behind me, the system materialised in a faint blue shimmer only I could see.
[Resting heart rate elevated. Would you like a guided meditation, or shall I cue "Eye of the Tiger"?]
"Cue 'Pretend Everything's Fine.'" I took a sip. "Volume: silent."
[Ah, the traditional early-morning panic routine. Charming.]
"Makes the coffee taste earnest." I leaned on the balustrade. "I keep expecting the universe to drop an anvil on my redemption arc."
[Probability of literal anvil: 0.06 %. Probability of metaphorical anvil board sabotage, hostile press leak, or ex-friends staging a revenge party currently 47 %.]
"Comforting." I drained half the mug. "Schedule?"
[6:30: chauffeur to HQ. 7:00–7:45: prep with legal and PR. 8:00 sharp: full board session, item three is your A&R proposal. Post-meeting, you promised Finance a conciliatory smile so they stop twitching about your 'no scandal' memo.]
I grimaced. "I don't smile on command."
[Then improvise.]
Shower. Charcoal suit, silver cuff links, tie a shade darker than shame. Hair slick, patch behind my ear replaced. In the mirror, I looked exactly like the villain they remembered except the eyes. The eyes felt… awake.
The drive downtown crawled through early traffic. I skimmed headlines: 'Ice-Queen CEO Silences Trolls Free Speech or Corporate Tyranny?'; 'Ryvenhart Board Meets Today Stocks Wobble in Anticipation'. My lawyer texted a thumbs-up GIF. I almost blocked him out of principle.
Inside the tower, the lobby buzzed at a lower frequency than yesterday. Fear had cooled into wary curiosity. A beta intern actually wished me good morning without choking on his tongue. Progress.
On the executive floor, my assistant hovered with two tablets, a coffee, and the expression of a man who'd binge-watched legal thrillers for homework.
"Everything's set," he blurted. "PR slides updated, budget sheets colour-coded, and I added a footnote about projected streaming revenue if when this single goes viral."
"Good." I accepted the coffee. "Deep breaths. You look like you're about to disarm a bomb."
He blinked. "Am I not?"
I didn't have time to reassure him board meetings wait for no existential crisis. We marched to the glass-and-steel war room, lights bright as interrogation. Directors filed in: alphas polished to mirror shine, betas in designer neutrals, a lone omega financial prodigy who refused polite smiles and kept notes in fountain-pen calligraphy.
They greeted me with a blend of politeness and predation. I took my seat at the head.
The first two agenda items trickled by quarterly margin tweaks, a discussion about relocating an overseas division. I delivered crisp answers, no clutter. My voice echoed just enough to remind them whose tower this was.
Then: Item Three.
My assistant tapped the screen; lights dimmed; the first slide glowed a single word in bold white font: POTENTIAL.
"Directors," I began, "you know our market share in emerging digital venues plateaued last quarter. I'm proposing a corrective vector an artist-led initiative anchored by Sera Lin. You'll find her demographic data in your packets. But numbers aside, you need to hear what we're selling."
I nodded to him. The room filled with the opening synth Sera had woven soft, then stronger, pulling even the stoic alpha treasurer forward in his seat. As the strings rose, I watched their faces: surprise, calculation, something a hair shy of awe.
Three minutes, forty-six seconds later, the last chord hung electric in the hush.
I said nothing. Let the silence work.
Finally, Director Nakamura, an omega known for shredding projections, cleared her throat. "Streaming potential?"
My assistant flicked to the next slide graph spikes, social-media engagement predictions, comparables to breakout hits. I answered calmly, quoting figures I'd memorised at dawn.
Director Reed, an alpha with a vendetta against risk, narrowed his eyes. "And the optics? Our CEO's… reputation remains volatile."
"Which is precisely why authenticity matters," I countered. "Miss Lin's story isn't scandalous it's resilience. We don't need another manufactured pop puppet; we need credibility. This single delivers that in under four minutes."
Murmurs. Pages flipped. Someone coughed.
I inhaled. "Authorise the expanded budget and we'll schedule a pre-release campaign within a month. We target college circuits, immersive live streams, acoustic shorts. Cost-effective. Controllable. High ROI."
Chairwoman Ortiz a beta with ice-water veins studied me. "And if this fails?"
"I take full responsibility," I said. "Publicly."
Her lips twitched the closest she came to smiling. "Motion on the floor?"
Nakamura raised a hand. "Seconded."
Ten seconds later: unanimous approval. Just like that.
The system pinged.
[Board support: 100 %. Risk threshold lowered. Ego inflation imminent monitor humility levels.]
I exhaled through a grin that felt dangerously real.
Meeting adjourned, directors dispersed. Some paused to offer curt nods; one alpha even complimented the demo. My assistant sagged with relief. I clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work."
He blinked at my hand as if it were a live grenade, then beamed. "Thank you, Miss Ryvenhart." He scurried off, newly energised to colour-code the universe.
I retreated to my office. The moment the door shut, the system materialised like an over-eager conscience.
[Well played. You resisted the urge to terrify them into compliance. You might survive this decade yet.]
"I almost missed the hammer," I admitted, loosening my tie. "But the scalpel works."
[Note: You still owe Finance a smile.]
I grimaced. "One crisis at a time."
I typed a brief update to Sera: Board approved your single. Budget secured. Congratulations.
Message sent. Less than a minute passed before the read receipt pinged. No reply not surprising. She didn't hand out thank-yous like candy.
I stared at the blinking cursor in the empty chat box, thumb hovering.
[Host, do not add an emoji.]
"Wasn't going to," I lied, tucking the phone away.
Mid-afternoon slowed. Emails multiplied; I answered on autopilot. PR drafted a less-aggressive follow-up statement about "protecting privacy while championing honest art." Legal flagged three tabloids still refusing to retract yesterday's memes; I green-lit moderate legal pressure (scalpel, not hammer).
Yet beneath the routine, restlessness pulsed. Sera's unresolved chord lingered in my head. The board's approval felt less like victory, more like the crest before a steeper hill.
At four-thirty, HR pinged mandatory wellness seminar next week on "Healthy Alpha-Omega Workplace Dynamics." My laugh startled the intern delivering water. I waved him off. Imagine me poster child for respecting boundaries. Maybe pigs would unionise and fly.
I stood, stretching. Shoulders popped. "I need air."
[Balcony or rooftop?]
"Rooftop. Balcony's starting to smell like existential dread."
[And seagulls.]
I took the private lift to the roof deck: glass railing, minimalist benches, a patch of designer greenery kept alive by pricey irrigation AI. The city spread below gritty and grand, equal parts opportunity and mistake. Wind lifted my hair; the pheromone patch held fast.
Footsteps behind me. I turned.
Sera stood in the doorway, jacket half-zipped, headphones around her neck, obviously surprised to find the roof occupied.
"Oh. Sorry HR said this was… open for breaks."
"It is." I stepped aside. "I was leaving, actually."
She didn't move. "You're never 'leaving.' You hover."
I arched a brow. "I thought villains lurk, not hover."
A ghost of a smile. "Depends on the budget."
Silence comfortable? No, cautious. Like two cats watching each other circumnavigate the same sunbeam.
"I heard about the board," she said at last. "Congrats."
"Thank you. It's your win, too."
"Don't jinx it. The campaign could flop, your legal threats could backfire, aliens could invade."
"Aliens have better PR than I do."
That earned an actual laugh, short but genuine. Wind tugged a strand of her hair. Citrus-fresh scent reached me, muted by blockers but unmistakable.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. "I'm… glad you sent the track."
Her gaze sharpened. "Why? Because it'll fatten your quarterly?"
"Partly," I admitted. "Mostly because it reminded me why this company exists. Music. Not headlines."
Something in her expression softened and hardened again, like cooling glass. "Well. Try not to break it."
She slipped on her headphones, nodding once before heading back to the stairs. I watched her go, a knotted thread of regret tightening in my chest.
[You wanted to say more, Host.]
"I don't earn more yet."
[Patience is a virtue seldom afforded to alphas. Practise.]
I leaned on the railing, city wind cutting through expensive fabric. A thought surfaced unwelcome, unshakable: Maybe redemption isn't a declaration. Maybe it's audience participation.
Below, traffic lights flickered from red to green. People crossed streets, unknowing, unbothered. Life, messy and miraculous, refused to pause for CEOs or their melodramas.