The fork in her hand stilled. For a long moment, she didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at her plate like it contained answers to questions she hadn't asked yet.
"That's a dangerous question," she said finally.
"That's not an answer."
She looked up. Her purple eyes were sharp. Calculating. Like she was deciding whether I could be trusted with something real instead of the polished corporate version of herself.
"I don't know," she said quietly.
Those three words felt heavier than anything she'd said all day.
"When my father was alive," she continued, her voice even softer, "he used to tell me I didn't have to be perfect. That I was enough just being myself." She paused.
"But himself is dead. And Mother needs someone who can run the company. Someone who understands the business. Someone who won't let the brand fall apart because they got distracted by feelings or creativity or any of the other things that don't matter in the end."
"You think feelings don't matter?"
