Courtney paced her apartment living room late Sunday evening, her phone pressed to her ear as Jasmine listened on the other end.
"I don't know how much longer I can do this," Courtney admitted, tugging at the sleeve of her oversized sweater. "Ever since that meeting with his uncle, Dwayne's been… unbearable. It's like he's going out of his way to make me feel invisible—or worse, inadequate."
Jasmine sighed. "Girl, you've been saying this for weeks. You're not an assistant. You're a strategist. You should be leading campaigns, not fetching coffee or building presentations that he barely glances at."
"It's not about the title," Courtney said quickly, though her voice wavered. "It's about proving I can survive here. Empire Brands is the pinnacle, Jaz. If I can't make it here, what does that say about me?"
"That maybe you're too good for them," Jasmine countered. "Honestly, Court, sometimes the smartest thing isn't fighting to sit at their table. It's building your own."
Courtney leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. She wanted to believe that. She wanted to imagine herself breaking free, running her own firm, making her own rules. But the truth was, she craved the validation that came from standing tall in Empire's boardroom, in front of the very families who had built it.
"I just need to survive tomorrow," Courtney muttered. "First board meeting. If I nail this, maybe he'll—" She cut herself off. Maybe he'll what? Notice me? Respect me? Stop looking at me like I'm a thorn in his side?
Jasmine filled the silence. "You don't need his approval, Court. You need your own. Remember that."
Courtney nodded, though her throat was tight. "I'll call you after it's over."
Empire Brands' headquarters towered like a glass monument above Michigan Avenue. On Monday morning, Courtney's reflection stared back at her in the lobby windows: sleek bun, tailored navy dress, heels polished to a shine. She looked the part, but her heart pounded like a drumline.
She had stayed up half the night refining the presentation deck, anticipating every question the board might ask. She couldn't afford to stumble. Not here. Not in front of them.
When she entered the executive floor, she was immediately aware of the weight of history. The walls bore oil portraits of the three founding families—the Knights, the Callahans, the Villanuevas. Generations of powerful faces stared down at her, a reminder that this was no ordinary company. It was a dynasty.
The boardroom doors were already open when she arrived. Dwayne sat at the head of the long mahogany table, jaw tight, eyes scanning his notes. He didn't acknowledge her as she slipped into the chair at his right, though she felt the tension radiating off him.
And then they arrived.
Patricia Callahan swept into the room first, draped in cream silk, her silver hair pinned immaculately. She carried herself like royalty, her every glance measured and purposeful.
Behind her came Eduardo Villanueva, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence magnetic. He greeted everyone with a booming laugh, yet his eyes missed nothing.
Finally, Harold Knight entered. His charm filled the room like smoke—smooth, suffocating, inescapable. He greeted Dwayne with a pat on the shoulder that was more a claim of ownership than affection. His gaze flicked to Courtney, sharp as a blade.
"Well," Harold drawled, taking his seat opposite Dwayne. "Shall we begin?"
Courtney clicked through the first slides, her voice steady though her palms dampened. She outlined the growth metrics, the proposed campaign structure, the digital outreach strategy. For a moment, she felt the rhythm of the room bending to her words.
Until Harold struck.
"Impressive numbers," he said smoothly, his tone a velvet glove over iron. "But tell me, Miss Rivers, do you truly believe these projections are sustainable? Or are they simply… optimistic?"
Courtney blinked. "The projections are based on market research and trend analysis—"
"Research conducted by whom?" Harold pressed, leaning forward. His smile was disarming, but his eyes glittered with malice.
Courtney's throat tightened. "By the internal analytics team, with oversight from myself."
Patricia Callahan arched a brow. "Oversight, or ambition?" she murmured, her voice like silk hiding steel. "Sometimes enthusiasm clouds judgment."
Eduardo Villanueva chuckled, though it wasn't unkind. "She's young, Patricia. Enthusiasm is part of the package." He turned to Courtney. "Tell me, what's the risk if your projections fall short?"
Courtney swallowed hard, acutely aware of every eye on her. "The risk," she said carefully, "is minimal compared to the potential gain. Even if we fall short by ten percent, the campaign will still outperform our current baseline."
Harold leaned back, satisfied. "A bold claim." His gaze slid to Dwayne. "And you trust her with these numbers?"
Dwayne's jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, Courtney thought—hoped—he might defend her. But his silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.
"Of course," he said at last, his tone clipped. "Courtney is thorough. She wouldn't bring anything to this board without being certain."
It wasn't exactly praise. It was more like a shield he begrudgingly lifted. But the damage was done. Courtney felt exposed, like her competence had been put on trial—and barely passed.
From his seat, Dwayne burned. He hated how Harold's words sliced into her, how Patricia's cool disdain made her falter, how she stood there under scrutiny, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the sting. He hated it because he couldn't look away.
Courtney Rivers. His assistant. His adversary. The woman he'd sworn to keep at arm's length. And yet, every time she spoke, he found himself leaning closer, drawn in by the fire beneath her composure. It infuriated him.
She shouldn't matter. Not in this room. Not in his plans. And yet Harold was right—she was his weakness. A distraction he couldn't afford.
So he stayed silent, fists clenched under the table, and let the storm pass.
The meeting adjourned two hours later. Courtney gathered her papers quickly, head bowed, eager to escape before anyone could see the flush in her cheeks.
As she slipped out, she caught Eduardo Villanueva watching her, a curious half-smile on his lips, as though he saw something the others missed. Patricia, meanwhile, whispered something to Harold that made him smirk.
Courtney hurried down the corridor, her heels clicking like gunfire. She reached her desk, sat down, and buried her face in her hands. Humiliation burned in her chest. She had prepared for every question—except the ones meant to belittle her.
She wanted to cry. Instead, she straightened her spine. If they thought they could break her with smirks and questions, they had no idea who they were dealing with.
She would prove herself. Not for Dwayne. Not for Harold. Not for anyone but herself.
Back in the boardroom, Harold lingered as the others filed out.
"You let her speak," Harold said casually, adjusting his cufflinks. "Interesting choice."
Dwayne's voice was ice. "She was prepared."
"She was green," Harold countered. "And you left her exposed. You think that was kindness? It was cruelty. But then again, perhaps you wanted her to squirm. Perhaps you wanted her to know she doesn't belong."
Dwayne's jaw tightened.
Harold leaned closer, his voice dropping. "She will undo you, nephew. Mark my words. Every time you let her into this room, every time you let her stand at your side, you weaken. She is your flaw. Your distraction. Your downfall."
And with that, Harold walked out, leaving the echo of his words hanging heavy in the air.
At her desk, Courtney opened her laptop, forcing herself to type notes from the meeting, even though her hands still trembled. Each keystroke steadied her heartbeat, each line of text rebuilding the confidence Harold had tried to shatter.
She would not run. She would not quit. She would not give Harold the satisfaction.
If this was a storm, she would learn to stand in it.
And when it passed, she would still be standing.