Sera Kaine

People say the view from the top is beautiful.

They forget to mention how lonely it is.

I've been told I run Kaine Corp with an iron fist. They're wrong. Iron is too soft. I run it with diamond edges--unbreakable, sharp, and guaranteed to leave a mark.

"Ms. Kaine, the board is waiting," my assistant stammers from the doorway, clutching a tablet like it's a holy book that might save her life. Poor thing. She's new. They always are.

I don't bother looking up from the contract I'm signing. "Then let them wait, Ava. Patience is a virtue they clearly lack."

Her shoes squeak against the marble floor as she hesitates. "Y-yes, ma'am."

I smirk. That's the thing about power—people either respect it or fear it. I prefer both.

The pen clicks shut, echoing in my glass-walled office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the skyline of Italy, all glitter and noise, but in here? Silence. Controlled, deliberate silence. It's how I like it.

My phone buzzes. Three missed calls from Dad. Two texts from Mom. I swipe them away. I'm busy running the empire they once said I couldn't handle. Now they just send polite reminders and pretend they never doubted me.

"Send in the board," I say finally.

Ava exhales like I just pardoned her from execution. "Right away, ma'am."

I fix my blazer and check my reflection in the dark glass. Power suit? Perfect. Hair? Immaculate. Expression? Ice-cold. No one needs to know I barely slept last night, staring at hospital monitors instead of spreadsheets.

The door opens, and the board members shuffle in—seven middle-aged men and one woman who looks like she aged twenty years trying to keep up with them. They sit around the long conference table, murmuring until I step in.

"Good morning," I say sweetly.

It's the kind of 'sweet' that makes them sit straighter. Like they can sense sugar's not the main ingredient.

"Ms. Kaine, we were just discussing the quarterly-"

"Then you were wasting your breath," I cut in, sliding the file across the table. "Because the numbers speak louder than any of you ever could."

One of them, Mr. Bolat, clears his throat. "With due respect, the marketing budget you approved—"

"Is already yielding results," I finish for him. "Next objection?"

He blinks. "I wasn't objecting, I was just—"

"Good. Then don't start now."

A few of them exchange looks. The woman, Mrs. Guilia, hides a smirk. She likes me. Probably because I'm the reason this company hasn't sunk like her last one.

The meeting continues, predictable as ever—men explaining to me what I already know, and me pretending to listen while mentally planning who's getting replaced next quarter.

But then it happens—like every day at exactly 11:30 a.m.

That flicker.

My gaze drifts to the photo on my desk. Two girls—one laughing, one pretending not to. Both too young, too free. One of them is me. The other is lying in a hospital bed, frozen in time.

The smile fades before I can stop it.

Five years.

Five damn years since that accident stole her from everything. From us.

I straighten, mask sliding back into place. "Meeting adjourned. Send me the updated report by EOD."

"But, Ms. Kaine—"

"Do I look like I stuttered, Mr. Bolat?"

He swallows hard. "N-no, ma'am."

"Good. Then don't make me repeat myself."

I stand, heels clicking against the marble—every step a reminder that the girl I once was died the day my sister didn't wake up.

Back in my office, Ava pokes her head in again. "Your coffee, ma'am."

"Triple espresso, no sugar?"

She nods. "Just how you like it."

"Finally, someone in this building who can follow instructions."

She smiles nervously and leaves. I take a sip. Bitter. Perfect. Exactly how mornings should taste.

There's a knock. My father walks in without waiting for permission—because of course he does.

"Still as dramatic as ever," he says, looking around. "You've redecorated."

"And you're still as uninvited as ever," I reply smoothly. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He sighs, loosening his tie. "Sera, you can drop the act when it's just us."

I raise an eyebrow. "Act? You mean the one that built this empire while your precious board tried to tear it down? That act?"

His jaw tightens. "I'm worried about your sister."

I set the cup down with a soft clink. "You always are. But worrying doesn't wake her up."

"That's not fair."

"Neither is life," I say simply, standing and turning toward the window. The city stretches endlessly, glittering beneath the noon sun. "You taught me that, remember?"

There's silence, heavy and awkward. He eventually mutters something about dinner at home. I tell him I'll try-knowing full well I won't.

When he leaves, the office feels too quiet again.

Too big. Too empty.

I sink back into my chair, glance at the photo again, and whisper, "You'd laugh if you saw me now, huh? Running Kaine Corp like a tyrant."

My reflection in the glass window smirks back.

Maybe that's all I am now-a tyrant with good lipstick and worse insomnia.

By the time the clock hits 8:00 p.m., the rest of the office looks like a ghost town.

The interns flee by six, the managers by seven, and the weak by sunset. I'm still here--because empires don't build themselves, and broken girls don't heal by sleeping.

My reflection in the glass looks intimidating: sleek bun, smudged eyeliner, and exhaustion dressed in Chanel.

Lovely.

If success had a face, it would look a lot like someone one meltdown away from world domination.

"Heading out, ma'am?" Ava's voice trembles from the doorway again, clutching her purse.

"Yes," I reply, shutting my laptop with a satisfying snap. "And Ava?"

"Y-yes, Ms. Kaine?"

"If anyone emails me after nine, they'd better have invented a cure for stupidity."

Her lips twitch into a nervous smile. "Understood."

"Good. Go home before I start assigning you extra work."

She practically runs out. I smirk. The poor thing still thinks I'm joking.

I grab my coat and step into the elevator, the city's neon lights stretching far below like a grid of burning stars. The doors close, trapping my reflection with me—queen of glass towers, heir to loneliness.

By the time I reach the ground floor, my heels have already announced my arrival like a royal decree. The guards nod respectfully as I step into the night.

My car--a sleek black Aston Martin--waits by the curb. The driver opens the door. "Evening, ma'am."

"Hospital," I say curtly.

He nods. He doesn't ask which one. He knows. Everyone who's worked for me longer than a week knows.

The drive is silent except for the city's heartbeat outside--horns, rain, and restless ambition. I scroll through my phone--emails, reports, one unread text from Mom:

Your sister's condition hasn't changed. The doctor wants to talk tomorrow.

I sigh. Same words, different day. The script hasn't changed in five years.

When the car stops, I step out into the hospital parking lot, instantly hit by that familiar sterile chill. Hospitals smell like false hope and disinfectant--two things I've had enough of.

The nurse at the reception nods when she sees me. "Good evening, Ms. Kaine. Same room?"

I nod once and head for the elevator, ignoring the stares.

People always look at me differently here. Like I'm not the same woman who terrifies half of Italy's corporate boardrooms. Maybe I'm not. Maybe this is the only place I'm allowed to be human.

Room 407.

My sister's name is still on the door—Vivenne Kaine.

The same way it's been since that night.

I push the door open quietly. The monitors beep in their endless rhythm, the only sign that she's still here--somewhere between life and whatever comes after it.

"Hey, sleepyhead," I whisper, setting down a bouquet of white lilies. "You'd hate these flowers. You always said they looked like funeral decor."

The irony isn't lost on me.

I sit beside her bed, fingers brushing the edge of the sheets. "The board tried to challenge me again today. You'd have loved watching me roast them alive."

A humorless laugh escapes my lips. "Remember how you used to say I'd end up running the company or ruining it? Congratulations, I'm doing both."

The room hums with machines, but there's no response. There never is.

Five years, and I still talk to her like she's just pretending. Like she's waiting for the right moment to jump up and say, Gotcha.

"She'd be twenty-three now," I whisper, staring at her still face. "You're supposed to be studying abroad, dating some musician, annoying me on weekends. Not..." My voice trails off.

I clench my jaw. Crying doesn't suit me. It ruins the mascara, and worse--it proves I still care.

A soft knock pulls me back. It's Mom. "You're here late again," she says gently.

"Work ran long."

She steps closer, eyes softening when she looks at Vivenne. "You're overworking yourself."

"I'm running your company," I remind her flatly.

"Our company," she corrects.

I don't argue. There's no point.

Mom still calls it ours like she's part of the empire anymore, but she retired years ago. I took her throne, filled her office, even inherited her favorite assistant. The only thing I didn't inherit was her softness.

"How's she?" I ask.

"The same," Mom murmurs. "Doctor says we'll review her meds tomorrow."

"Right," I say, glancing at my watch. "Let me know if anything changes."

She looks at me for a long second. "You can stay, you know. Just... for a while."

I nod but don't answer. Staying means feeling, and I'm not ready for that. Not tonight.

On the way out, the nurse stops me. "Ms. Kaine, we noticed an irregularity in your sister's heartbeat earlier today. It stabilized, but you might want to--"

"She's stable now?" I interrupt.

"Yes."

"Then call me if she's not."

My tone is sharper than intended, but softness feels dangerous lately.

In the car, I exhale, finally letting the mask slip for a second. Just one.

I lean back against the leather seat, eyes closed. For five seconds, I'm not Sera Kaine the CEO. I'm just Sera—the sister who didn't protect her, the daughter who hides behind sarcasm, the girl who stopped believing in second chances.

Then the phone buzzes.

A calendar reminder: 9:00 AM -- Meeting with Board.

I open my eyes, exhale once, and slide the armor back on.

"Home," I tell the driver.

He nods.

As the city rushes by in a blur of gold and rain, I catch my reflection in the car window—same cold eyes, same calm smirk.

The Ice Queen is back.

And tomorrow, she'll burn the world again—smiling.

--------------------------------

Author's Note

Hey, you. Yes, you--reading this instead of doing literally anything productive. First off, congratulations. You've officially stumbled into my chaotic little world of billion-dollar empires, icy CEOs, and messy feelings (mostly mine... sometimes Sera's).

I just wanted to say: thank you. For clicking, for scrolling, for pretending to care about grown adults making terrible decisions while looking fabulous. You're basically family now... the kind I let drink coffee with me at 2 a.m. while plotting world domination.

This story? It's messy. It's dramatic. It's got sass, heartbreak, revenge, and probably way too much high-heels-and-boardroom energy. But it's also my little love letter to anyone who's ever wanted power, passion, or just a perfectly timed sarcastic remark in their life.

So buckle up. Laugh, cry, throw your phone in frustration, and maybe--just maybe--root for the people who make your life feel like a boardroom of chaos.

Stay fabulous, stay savage,

-Arfiya 💅

                                                                    Sera Kaine

The office greeted me with a silence that felt unnatural, almost predatory. Not the kind of silence that accompanies focused work or the calm before the storm of deadlines; this was the type that pressed on your chest, made your skin crawl, and insisted you pay attention. The usual symphony of clicking keyboards, low murmurs of colleagues discussing projects, and the distant whir of the printer had vanished, leaving the space suffocatingly still. Even the scent of the office seemed altered-clean, sterile, faintly bitter, like the lingering scent of espresso mixed with ozone after a thunderstorm.

I paused at the entrance, heels clicking against the polished marble floor, letting my gaze sweep across every inch. My instincts prickled, a familiar tingle at the base of my neck that screamed: something is off.

I moved with purpose, though every step was calculated. The air seemed heavier with each click of my heels, echoing through the empty halls like a warning drum. My desk was as I had left it: pristine, organized, a fortress of glass and metal, glowing screens reflecting the morning sun in sharp angles. But I barely noticed. My mind was elsewhere, tuned to the smallest anomalies--a shadow that lingered a fraction too long, a sound too soft yet distinct, the hum of electricity slightly warped.

"Giulia," I murmured under my breath, "don't make me regret trusting you with the office while I'm away."

She flitted near the door, nerves visible in the taut set of her shoulders. She nodded, clutching her tablet like a shield. "Everything's fine, Sera. Just... keep an eye out, okay?"

I allowed a small smirk. "I always do."

And then I heard it: the subtle click of a door handle, deliberate and quiet.

My breath hitched--not from fear, but anticipation. My body tensed like a bowstring. The door cracked open, just enough for a figure to slip inside.

Tall, lean, black suit, cap pulled low, sunglasses reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. Professional. Menacing. Wrong.

"Ms. Kaine," he said smoothly, voice controlled, rehearsed, almost polite in its menace. "I have a message for you."

I tilted my head, smirk curling slowly. "Do I look like the kind of woman who takes messages in person?" The words were casual, almost teasing, but my body hummed with coiled energy. Every muscle was ready.

He stepped closer. And then I saw it--the glint of metal in his hand. A knife. Thin, lethal, glinting like a shard of moonlight on steel.

Instinct took over.

The world slowed.

He lunged. Quick, deliberate, calculated. My side-step was fluid, my hand snatching his wrist and twisting sharply. The knife clattered to the floor.

"Oh, honey," I murmured, circling him, eyes cold and amused. "You really shouldn't have done that."

He growled, swinging again, faster now, more desperate. I ducked, air rushing past my cheek, and kicked him in the knee. A grunt. He staggered, but didn't fall. I grabbed a nearby paperweight, swinging it into his shoulder with precision. Another grunt, and his balance wavered.

"You picked the wrong person," I hissed, spinning, elbow into ribs, a sharp jab to the jaw, then a sweep of legs. Down he went, sprawled across the polished floor, groaning.

Security burst in, frozen, awe written plainly on their faces. I brushed imaginary dust from my blazer, adjusted a strand of hair, and let a faint, sly smile settle.

The intruder lay unconscious. Shadows stretched across the office like dark fingers, twisting and curling. Whoever sent him was no amateur. Not random. Calculated. Professional.

I didn't wait for questions. My mind was already moving ahead—CCTV, emails, phone calls. Someone wanted me dead. I intended to find out who.

___________________

By the next morning, the office was alive with whispers. Colleagues peeked from doorways, sharing incredulous glances.

"She beat him herself!" one whispered.

"I wouldn't last five seconds if someone came at me," another said.

I walked past, heels clicking, voice light, teasing. "Exactly. That's why it's me, not you."

Giulia hovered near security, adjusting cameras and locks. "Everyone's talking," she murmured nervously. "You... you're incredible."

I allowed a slow, knowing smile. "Practical," I corrected. "I prefer practical."

By mid-morning, a uniformed officer appeared, clipboard in hand, professional yet faintly exasperated.

"Ms. Kaine," he said, extending a hand. "Officer Luca Romano. I'm here regarding the assault yesterday."

I shook firmly. "Yes. The suspects are secured. Security alerted. How can I help?"

He glanced at the intruders still groaning in the corner, then back at me. "I need a statement, CCTV footage, and... well, I also wanted to say that was incredibly brave. Most people would've panicked."

I leaned against my desk, crossing one leg. "Thank you. Surviving is my specialty. Panic isn't."

He chuckled. "Handled it like a pro. Few people can say that."

I let my gaze drift to the hallway where colleagues peeked. "Handle it like a pro—or get out of the way."

The officer nodded, making notes, eyes sharp, weighing me like a weapon and a strategist at once.

The day passed, but the threat lingered. My phone buzzed with an anonymous email: "Next time, you won't be so lucky."

A package arrived soon after—a small, intricately carved dagger, and a note: "You can't escape."

I rolled my eyes. Really? Cute. Someone was trying hard.

By lunchtime, I was alone in the office, reviewing reports, when the lights flickered. The hum of electronics warped subtly. Shadows shifted in a deliberate pattern. Too precise to be random.

And then he was there. Masked, knife in hand. The second intruder.

Instinct kicked in. Duck, block, elbow, kick. I grabbed a chair, swinging it with calculated force, sending him into the wall.

"Really?" I panted, smirking. "Two assassins in one day? Ambitious."

He scrambled, knife flashing again. I twisted his arm, slammed him down. Survival first. Mercy... optional.

Security arrived moments later. Groans and confusion filled the room. I stood, chest heaving, smirk curling across lips. "Is that all? Because I haven't even started."

The following days became a delicate ballet of vigilance. Emails, packages, subtle shadows, unusual phone calls. Every step I took, every glance I threw over my shoulder, was cataloged, analyzed. Nights were spent replaying CCTV, memorizing every nuance, every detail.

Training surged back to me: martial arts, hand-to-hand combat, emergency exits, improvisation. Rain-soaked streets. Alleyway escapes. Adrenaline and fear, intertwined and familiar. Every strike, every block, every decision now instinct.

Colleagues continued to whisper, eyes wide with admiration.

"She handled it herself."

"I'd be gone in five seconds."

I let a slow, knowing grin curl. Confidence is as lethal as a perfectly timed strike, and I wielded both effortlessly.

Evening fell. City lights glittered like shards of glass against the night sky. Shadows lingered, threats concealed, a game of survival and strategy playing out silently. Emails and packages whispered the same thing: don't underestimate her.

I didn't.

The storm had arrived. And I was the eye.

The game had begun. And I intended to win.

                                                               Sera Kaine

I stepped into the Kaine Mansion and immediately wanted to curl up in a corner and sob... or scream. Probably both. The chandelier above me sparkled like it was mocking my life, its crystal droplets catching the golden light and scattering it like a thousand tiny, judgmental paparazzi flashes. The marble floor gleamed, polished enough to reflect my miserable face back at me—an expression somewhere between CEO meltdown and crime scene survivor chic.

My heels clicked on the marble with sharp precision—click, click, click—like an execution countdown. Every echo screamed, Welcome home, Sera. The circus awaits. Because, of course, after being physically assaulted in my office today, life's encore performance was walking into my parents' living room. The second attack of the day—psychological warfare edition.

Dad was the first to spot me. His ridiculous silk slippers squeaked as he practically launched himself off the couch, waving his arms like a man spotting a celebrity or maybe an alien. His robe—yes, a robe, embroidered with "AK" (Alexander Kaine, obviously)—flapped dramatically behind him like some overenthusiastic philosopher-turned-magician.

"Ah! There she is! My hurricane! My tempest! My indomitable Sera Kaine!"

I froze mid-step, blinking at him like he'd just spoken in Morse code. "Hurricane? Dad. Hurricane? Are we seriously calling being attacked a 'hurricane' now?" My voice could have sliced through concrete.

He placed one hand on his chest and leaned back, clearly unbothered. "Well, you do shake things up wherever you go, my tempest. Survived worse than this, haven't you?"

I blinked. Once. Twice. Then groaned—a sound that carried the weight of every bad life decision I'd ever made. "Survived worse? Dad, I could've ended up in the hospital. Someone tried to ruin my life today and you—" I gestured dramatically toward him "—you're giving me a compliment? Inspirational."

Dad grinned like he'd just invented motivation itself. "Exactly! My hurricane survives everything! Fire in the veins, unbreakable spirit—that's Kaine blood, my girl. That's why you're my hurricane."

I tilted my head slowly, sarcasm dripping like molten gold. "Right. Because being attacked at work is totally adorable when you describe it like a weather forecast. Perfect support system, Dad. Truly groundbreaking."

He just beamed, clearly proud of himself.

From the armchair near the fireplace, Mom finally cleared her throat—softly, calmly, the way only Isabella Kaine could, the peacemaker in this wild family symphony. Her cream cashmere sweater matched the delicate pearls at her neck, and her hands were folded with elegance that could make diplomats cry. "Sera, darling," she began, her tone gentle, almost rehearsed, "perhaps we can talk about this calmly?"

I turned to her with wide eyes. "Calmly? Mom. I was attacked. In my office. Calmly is not exactly on the table today. I came home bruised, angry, and ready to commit mild violence. Calmly? Nope. Try again."

Dad chuckled from behind her. "Ah! Words cut sharper than blades, hurricane—but I love it! Keeps life... interesting."

"Interesting?" I echoed incredulously. "Dad, interesting is spilling coffee on your white shirt before a meeting. Interesting is a surprise audit. Interesting is not—" I pointed at myself, "—being physically assaulted!"

I flopped dramatically into the nearest armchair, my heels clicking against the edge as I stretched out like I owned the place (which, technically, I half did). "And you laughing? So helpful."

Dad waved a hand, as if brushing away reality. "Nonsense. Life's a game, hurricane. Sometimes, the board hits back. You just move with the storm!"

I groaned, pressing a hand to my forehead. "Move with the storm? Dad, the storm nearly broke my ribs. If I move with it any more, I'll end up in a coffin with a sarcastic eulogy written by you."

Mom exhaled quietly, her tone still soft, patient. "Sera, darling... we only want to protect you."

I laughed—loud, incredulous. "Protect me? Protect me by cheering for my survival rate? Or by giving me relationship advice mid-breakdown?"

Dad leaned forward with mock solemnity. "Humor, hurricane. Humor is my superpower. You'll appreciate it one day."

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw the back of time. "Dad, the only thing I'll appreciate is a therapist who specializes in parental absurdity."

Mom tried again, her voice smoothing over the chaos like silk over fire. "Sera... I only meant—"

"Only meant?" I cut her off, my hands flying dramatically. "Only meant that life threw me into a meat grinder today and your solution is—" I pointed accusingly, "—setting me up with a stranger CEO? Perfect. Revolutionary. I'm healed already."

Mom's lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile. "My friend has a son. He's very successful, runs a company, very respectable... perhaps it could be stabilizing."

I froze mid-breath. "Stabilizing? Mom, you think marriage is the cure for workplace assault? Of course! How silly of me not to realize that earlier. Forget therapy—just find a CEO."

Dad clapped his hands like she'd said something genius. "Exactly, hurricane! Fire meets structure. You'll sweep him off his feet with one sentence!"

"Dad." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I am not sweeping anyone. I'm surviving. Preferably with all my limbs attached."

Mom's calm tone never cracked. "We just want you safe, Sera."

"Safe?" I echoed, laughing humorlessly. "Safe is hiring a bodyguard, not marrying one. Safe is security, not arranged alliances. Got it, Mom. Truly groundbreaking parenting."

Dad leaned forward, eyes twinkling mischievously. "See? Courage, sass, fire... unstoppable! That's why we love you."

I stared at both of them, then flopped back dramatically on the couch. "At this point, I'm convinced I'll need a manual just to survive dinner conversations."

The chandelier glimmered mockingly again, as if agreeing. The smell of Mom's lavender candle wafted through the air—calming, soothing, and completely ineffective. Somewhere in the corner, our old Labrador snored on the carpet, blissfully unaware of the melodrama unfolding.

"Alright, world," I muttered under my breath. "Bring it on. And Dad, next time—hire a bodyguard before the marriage broker, yeah?"

Dad laughed. Mom shook her head, trying not to smile. I sighed so deeply it could've powered a wind farm.

______________________

Later that night, as I sat curled up on the couch with an ice pack pressed against my shoulder, the whole attack replayed in my mind like a badly written action film. The man had been arrogant, stupid, and severely underestimating me—as if being a young CEO meant I was made of glass. He'd swung first; I'd ducked; coffee had flown; and my coffee mug had nearly earned MVP status as a defensive weapon. My ribs ached, my arm throbbed, but my ego? Untouched. My dignity? Fully caffeinated.

I imagined telling Dad about the mug incident. His likely response? "Oh, hurricane, thrilling stuff!" Thrilling. That word alone made me want to dunk my head in the koi pond.

I rubbed my temple and muttered, "You know what? I don't need a husband. I need a punching bag. And maybe a lock on my office door."

_____________________

Dad leaned back in his recliner like a talk-show host. "Sera, you're fiery, unstoppable—that's why I adore you! No man, no CEO, no nothing will ever... wait, stop glaring. I mean that positively."

"Dad, if I glare any harder, the chandelier's going to drop out of pure fear," I deadpanned.

Mom sipped her tea, her expression unreadable but her lips twitching at the corners. "You're sharp tonight, darling. But remember—anger burns fast."

"Good," I muttered. "Maybe it'll burn the matchmaking ideas out of this house."

Dad laughed, full and hearty. "Ah, that's my hurricane! Savage, beautiful chaos! Pure Kaine blood!"

"Pure Kaine blood indeed," I sighed. "Because surviving physical assault and parental nonsense in one day? That's Olympic-level endurance."

Mom tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "At least you're never boring."

"Boring?" I scoffed. "Mom, boring sounds like paradise right now. Give me boring. Please."

Dad leaned forward, his grin spreading again. "But then who would we brag about at dinner parties?"

"Try bragging about your sanity, Dad," I shot back.

_____________-

By the time the grandfather clock struck ten, I'd concluded that surviving my parents might be harder than surviving the actual attack. At least the man in my office had a clear goal: destroy. My parents? A mystery wrapped in humor and matchmaking.

Leaning back, I let my head rest on the couch armrest, my mind a whirlwind of bruises, sarcasm, and lavender air freshener. "Alright, world," I whispered to no one in particular. "Bring it on. And maybe send me a therapist. Or a vacation."

Because today I learned something monumental:

Office attackers? I can handle them.

Parents? I might need divine intervention.

And somehow, against all logic, I knew I'd survive both—because if chaos was a language, I was fluent. 💋

_______________________