⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆✼♡✽⋆∘∙⊱⋅•
The next morning greeted me with a sense of smug confidence, like I'd already secured victory before the game even kicked off. I woke up still buzzing from the quiet rebellion of last night, that delightful rush of knowing I'd made my mark without ever raising my voice. I got dressed like I was preparing for battle—because in a way, I was.
The navy shirt I picked hugged me just right, the fabric exuding enough quality to whisper wealth without being blatant about it. I rolled the sleeves with careful precision, folding the cuffs just above my forearms to catch the light when I moved. Every button I fastened was done with intention; every glance in the mirror reminded me that today, I wasn't just Xavier Fairchild's assistant. I was a polished weapon wrapped in sharp tailoring.
Then I walked off to work, ignoring the constant feeling of being followed.
