The silence in my office felt electric, not empty. It was the pause before a conductor's downbeat — the kind of hush that made you aware of every breath in the room. Pauline came in with coffee and a tablet balanced like an officer bearing a flag. She met my eyes as she set the cup down; there was no fear there, only a steady, ready calm that had nothing to do with subservience and everything to do with solidarity.
"Morning, Miss Sterling," she said, voice low. "Here's today's papers. I have pinged legal; they've got a line open. I flagged the trading desk. If we need to push anything, I have the comms queue waiting."
Her efficiency was a kind of comfort. She didn't hover. She didn't avert her gaze. She stood like someone who would take a bullet if I asked for it — and she would, because she had never been the sort to flinch.
The broadsheet hit my desk like an insult. The headline was theatrical, cruel:STERLING SISTERS' SOCIAL MEDIA WAR — ONE HEIRESS RANT VS. ANOTHER'S FORWARD DECLARATION. EMPIRE ON THE EDGE?
Two images.Chloe, mascara streaked, frozen mid-rant. Me, pristine and unsmiling, taken from the press conference steps — a portrait of composure weaponized.
The article was a complete masterpiece of insinuation, weaving Chloe's drunken, vulgar accusations with my stoic response, framing it all as a juicy, destabilizing family fued.
I pressed by fingers to my temples. It was a perfect piece of theatre. The world didn't want facts; it wanted bloodlines cracking on camera. The journalists gave them exactly what they wanted.
My pulse flickered once. Then I looked at Pauline. "Stock?"
She already had her tablet up. The chart glowed an angry red.
"It opened seven percent down," she whispered. "Analysts cite instability… governance concerns… family interference. Volatility flagged.A lot of chatter in the hedge feeds - I think someone's trying to profit on the rumour."
Family interference. They made betrayal sound bureaucratic.
"Where's my father?"
Her throat bobbed. "In the boardroom. They called an emergency meeting. It's already started."
I rose. The chair rolled back with a quiet sigh. Pauline took a step away.
"Who called it?"
"The board.. Chairman Lang." She hesitated. "They're… questioning his capacity. After last night."
After the engagement fiasco and Chloe's meltdown. After the viral storm Diana had been waiting for.
The headache that had been threatening all morning finally bloomed — a white-hot pulse at the base of my skull. I breathed through it.
"Hold my calls," I said. My voice came out too calm. "And tell Legal to monitor any trading spikes. Someone's betting on this. Hold off releasing any statements."
I didn't run. Running was for prey. I walked — each heel strike a metronome counting down to the reckoning.
The boardroom doors loomed ahead, twin slabs of walnut. Voices leaked through: raised, masculine, the sound of power congratulating itself.
I didn't knock.
The doors swung open on their hinges, and a dozen heads snapped toward me.
My father sat at the head of the table — shoulders bowed, eyes dulled. A lion surrounded by carrion birds. Alistair Finch was mid-sentence, finger stabbing the air for emphasis.
"…we cannot continue under leadership that allows this kind of circus—"
He stopped when he saw me.
"Ah," he said, tone curling into disdain. "The cause of our little crisis."
The word little was meant to belittle. I let it hang, then crossed the threshold.
The hush was exquisite. You could hear the whisper of fabric as I adjusted my sleeve.
"My father's leadership isn't your crisis, Alistair," I said evenly. "Your lack of imagination is."
A few of them flinched; others leaned forward, scenting theatre.
"Elara," my father began, weary. "This isn't—"
"It concerns the company's stability," I said, cutting in without raising my voice. "That makes it my concern."
Finch bristled. "Miss Sterling, this is a closed session. You've already caused enough—"
"Damage?" I finished for him, stepping closer to the table. "That's one word for market disruption. I prefer 'movement.'"
Someone coughed to hide a smirk.
I stopped behind the empty chair beside my father — the one usually kept for the COO. My hands rested on its back, claiming it without invitation.
"Let's skip the theatre," I said. "You've already drafted your resolution, haven't you? Something about transferring interim authority to a 'neutral' party? Someone with a steadier hand?"
Finch's silence was confirmation enough.
I smiled — not kindly. "And let me guess. Alistair Finch's name appears somewhere near the top of that proposal?"
Murmurs rippled around the table. The silence that followed was the sound of guilt in pinstripes.
"You all read the same headlines," I continued. "You saw a tantrum and mistook it for a collapse. That was your first mistake. The second was underestimating my ability to turn chaos into currency."
"Currency?" one of the directors echoed, incredulous.
"Yes," I said, pacing slowly, every eye tracking me. "You think the world saw a scandal. What they actually saw was engagement. Every algorithm, every search engine, every broker feed is talking about us. For the first time in months, the Sterling name is alive. And while you were clutching your quarterly projections, the rest of us were securing the future of this company. There is no such thing as bad publicity."
Finch leaned back, folding his arms. "Bold words. Where's the proof?"
I let a beat pass. "The proof," I said softly, "is in the partnership announcement you'll see this afternoon. We didn't lose control — we expanded it. The alliance secured last night doubles our property footprint in Asia within five years. It's already signed."
The whisper spread like static. Half of them were already glancing at their phones.
"And while you were panicking over stock dips, our communications team was preparing the next release," I continued. "The narrative isn't 'two sisters at war.' It's 'Sterling's unified front in a changing market.' You can print that headline now, or you can explain to your shareholders tomorrow why you were the last to understand it."
The words hit like quiet detonations.
Finch's expression faltered. "You're asking us to believe this was deliberate strategy?"
I met his gaze. "I'm not asking. I'm showing you the cost of underestimating a Sterling."
He opened his mouth to retort — something smug, no doubt — but my father's voice cut through first, deeper now, regaining its old weight.
"She's right."
Every head turned.
He rose slowly, the old authority settling back onto his frame like a mantle rediscovered. "We've weathered worse storms than this. But I will not sit here and listen to men who profit from this family's name tell me how to protect it."
Finch started to speak again, but Charles Sterling raised a hand — quiet, absolute.
"If any of you doubt this family's capacity to lead, there's the door," he said. "Sell your shares while you still can. There are plenty of investors waiting to buy into what we're building."
No one moved.
"I'll give you another week, Charles. If the stocks are still volatile then, no pretty words will get you out of it." Alistair looked at the both of us, masking his disappointment that the resolution was not passed today.
For a long moment, the room was nothing but the sound of air conditioning and the distant pulse of the city below. Then chairs scraped, papers shuffled, throats cleared — the universal language of retreat.
When the last of them filed out, the room exhaled. My father stayed standing, staring at the empty chairs as though seeing ghosts leave them.
"I was trying to shield you from this," he said quietly.
"I know."
He turned to me. The fatigue in his eyes was still there, but beneath it — pride, sharp as light on glass.
"You shouldn't have had to fight them."
"Maybe," I said, "but someone had to remind them who they're dealing with."
I reached out, smoothing a wrinkle from his sleeve, a gesture that steadied us both.
"I'm not the one who needs protecting anymore," I said. "We can do this together."
He covered my hand with his. His grip was firm. "You were magnificent."
The corners of my mouth lifted. "We'll need to make sure the markets think so too."
Outside the window, the skyline glittered — hard, metallic, merciless. Somewhere out there, a storm was still gathering, but for now, the boardroom was quiet.
For now, the empire stood.