memorial
Mornings belonged to Selena Hart
Not the sun, not the skyline, not even the headlines of her own media empire could interrupt her ritual. She woke every day at 4:45 a.m.—no alarm. Her mind, sharper than any clock, whispered her awake.
She moved with quiet precision. A black silk robe, freshly steamed. Coffee—measured to the gram, brewed to 92 °C. Not a degree more. While it steeped, she opened her notebook. A page marked with the date. Beneath it, her three daily mantras, written in her own tight cursive:
Selena hart
Control is clarity.
Selena hart
Disorder is danger.
Selena hart
Emotion is a luxury.
She read them aloud. She never missed a day.
Selena Had learned long ago: control was not just about schedules and spreadsheets. It was about people. Emotionally volatile people.
And in the world of media—authors, editors, creatives—emotions ran rampant. Which was why she controlled them like a conductor wielding a scalpel.
Her company, Hart House, was a publishing empire: literary novels, trendsetting magazines, curated culture, and bold journalism. They published voices—but only the ones she handpicked. Narratives—but only the ones she approved. Every article, every book cover, every headline bore her invisible fingerprint.
She ran it all from a throne room of glass and steel—her office perched above the editorial floors. Transparent walls. Nothing hidden. She liked it that way. Secrets made her twitch.
Charcoal pantsuit, hair pinned in a knot so precise it might have been sculpted. Burgundy lipstick, lined perfectly. She studied herself in the mirror—not for beauty, but for discipline.
At 7:00 a.m., she entered Hart House through the private elevator. She liked to be in before the editors, before the interns started cluttering the air with chatter about fonts, feelings, and “creative energy.”
The walls of Selena's office were lined with first editions.
Her phone buzzed, slicing through the stillness. She answered without looking.
Aya rivers
“Ms. Hart, ” “It’s your mother. Again. She’s asking if you’ll be attending the memorial this weekend.”
Selena hart
“What memorial?”
Aya rivers
“Your uncle Marcus. The one who—”
Selena hart
“I know who he is.”
Aya rivers
"She said it's for family__ "
Selena hart
" no more words leave Aya "
She returned to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer—the only one with a lock. Inside: a worn photograph.
She didn’t take it out. She never did. But she always checked that it was still there.
Selena hart
"Where are u MR. Dante" (She called her grandfather Mr. Dante to tease him in past )
Selena hart
"It's really hard to be Clam on that day without u "
her face was emotionless even when she was looking at her dead grandfather
Aya rivers
“Your 11:00 is here,”
Selena hart
“The editor from Sundown?”
Selena hart
“No. It’s the author. Quinn Hale.”
Selena Sighed. Quinn Hale was a brilliant, self-obsessed novelist with a reputation for missing deadlines and starting Twitter fights. She hadn’t approved this meeting.
Selena hart
“Send him in.”
Quinn Hale
“Thought I’d bring it personally,”
Quinn Hale
“Let you see what genius smells like in paper form.”
Selena hart
“Genius? Smells like desperation and cigarettes.”
Quinn Hale
“Read it. You’ll see.”
She flipped through the pages. Sharp prose. Bleak, emotional. Raw enough to bleed.
Selena hart
“You’re bleeding all over the place Are you sure you want the world to see you this naked?”
Quinn Hale
“Maybe it’s time they did.”
She looked up, eyes narrowing. There was something in his voice—a tremble of honesty. It unnerved her.
Selena hart
“Not everyone’s story needs to be this exposed,” she replied. “Some stories are stronger with a filter.”
Quinn Hale
“You say that like you’re speaking from experience.”
Selena hart
“Submit it to legal, If it survives the lawyers, we’ll talk.”
After he left, she stared at the door for a long moment.
Then picked up the manuscript and slammed it into the bin.
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