Selena's world
The office was silent, save for the precise ticking of a modern clock. Its hands, silver and thin, moved without hesitation—like everything in Selena Hart’s world.
She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse office, eyes fixed on the skyline. Towers pierced the clouds like declarations of war against the ordinary. Below, the city pulsed with life and noise, but up here—above it all—there was only silence. Clean, sharp, controlled.
Just how she liked it.
Aya rivers
“Ms. Hart, the investors are in Conference Room One. Waiting on your word.”
Selena didn’t answer right away. She was counting her breaths. Five seconds in. Hold. Five seconds out. It was a trick she'd learned during therapy she never fully trusted. A way to keep the chaos tucked neatly into invisible compartments.
Selena hart
Tell them I’ll be down in three minutes. And remind them—I don’t wait for latecomers
Aya walked back to her desk, heels clicking like punctuation.
The desk was minimalist—glass surface, matte-black legs. No photos, no mess. Just her laptop, a leather-bound notebook, and a perfectly aligned pen.
She sat and opened the notebook, flipping past pages of neat, obsessively organized notes. A line caught her eye.
Selena hart
“When people stop obeying, burn the map and draw a new one.”
She didn’t remember writing that.
After 3 min in conference room
miya
“We’ve been exploring a theme for the next cover story—authenticity in modern relationships,”
Selena hart
“Why would we publish something on authenticity when half our audience is addicted to the illusion of it?” *tilted her head*
miya
“We thought it would—”
Selena hart
“Feel-good content is everywhere. That’s not what we do. We don’t flatter. We lead.”
Silence. The kind that spread like ink in water.
She dismissed the team with a nod. As they filed out, Aya appeared again, holding a fresh proof of a book cover mock-up.
Aya rivers
“Also… your mother left another message. She mentioned your father.”
Selena hart
“Next time she calls, tell her I’m on deadline. Forever.”
Aya Nodded, awkwardly, before slipping out.
At lunch, Selena sat alone in her glass office, flipping through manuscripts with red pencil in hand. She slashed lazy metaphors, circled inconsistencies, rewrote chapter titles. Even fiction had to obey her standards.
From her perch, she could see the floor’s subtle choreography: writers debating headlines, designers fighting over negative space, assistants juggling egos. It was beautiful.
Exactly how she liked it.
At 5:45 p.m., she closed her notebook and stood, stretching her neck slowly. A stack of books lay beside her—some unpublished, others already bestsellers thanks to her ruthless instinct.
at 6:30 p.m. she was at her penthouse
Her apartment was a museum of discipline. A penthouse wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass, every item aligned, measured, curated. No family photos. No souvenirs. Just design—cold, modern, efficient. Liria didn’t keep things that didn’t serve purpose.
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