SHILLOUETES OF FREEDOM

"Freedom doesn't always roar. Sometimes, it whispers in the quiet morning light, telling you-you survived."

IRA'S POV

The first rays of Chicago's morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ira's penthouse, casting golden streaks across the pristine white sheets.

She lay still for a moment, eyes half-lidded, letting herself absorb the quiet. Mornings were sacred. A reminder that she had made it this far-away from the shadows of her past. Away from the people who had dictated every second of her life.

A deep breath. In. Out.

Her fingers reached for the silk robe draped over the armchair as she stepped onto the cool marble floors. The city skyline stretched before her, skyscrapers piercing the soft hues of dawn. She belonged here. She had built this life with her own hands, and no one-no one-could take it from her.

Her morning routine was meticulous, designed for discipline and efficiency. A cold shower to wake her senses, followed by her skincare routine-luxury products lined up in perfect symmetry on the vanity. She took her time, massaging the serum into her skin, watching her own reflection.

"You are no longer the girl they caged," she whispered to herself.

She stepped into her walk-in closet, a sanctuary of designer collections. Dresses, tailored pantsuits, and silk blouses arranged in color-coded perfection. Ira didn't dress for approval-she dressed for power. Today, it was a black, fitted blazer with a deep-necked blouse and wide-legged trousers. Understated yet commanding. A pair of stilettos completed the ensemble.

Confidence wasn't just a mindset. It was an armor.

And she had learned to wield it well.

Velóré-A Kingdom of Her OThe streets of downtown Chicago bustled as her driver pulled up in front of a sleek glass building. The golden 'Velóré' sign gleamed in the morning sun, a testament to the empire she had built.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted the moment she stepped through the doors. Employees straightened, hushed whispers replaced casual chatter. Fear. Respect. A mix of both.

"Good morning, ma'am," her assistant, Naina, greeted, handing her a tablet with the day's schedule.

"Morning," Ira replied, her voice crisp. "Is the Paris shipment on track?"

"Yes, ma'am. The jewelry line launch is set. We received an exclusive feature request from Vogue India."

Ira's lips twitched-just a fraction. "Make it happen."

Velóré wasn't just another high-end fashion and jewelry brand. It was the brand. Celebrities, socialites, and business magnates vied for exclusivity. Everything Velóré released was crafted to perfection-luxury that whispered power.

And she had built it from the ground up.

The Fear She Wore Like Perfume

But power came with a price.

She felt it in the cautious glances of her employees. In the way designers hesitated before presenting ideas. In the unspoken rule-don't cross Ira Bansal.

"Ma'am, Mr. Roy is waiting in the conference room," anaya informed her, hesitating.

Ira arched a brow. "Problem?"

"He, um... seemed nervous."

They always were.

Inside the conference room, the young designer shifted under her sharp gaze. His fingers tapped against the table, a nervous tic.

"I-I have a pitch for the upcoming collection," he started, sliding a portfolio forward.

Ira flipped through it, her expression unreadable. Five minutes passed in silence. Then she closed the file and leaned back, crossing her legs.

"No."

His face paled. "But, ma'am, I-"

"It's mediocre," she cut in, voice even. "Velóré doesn't do mediocre."

Silence.

She stood, smoothing the fabric of her blazer. "Bring me something worth my time."

And just like that, the meeting was over.

A Shadow in the Light

By afternoon, her office was bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. She sipped her espresso, staring at the city beyond the glass walls.

And that's when it happened.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Like someone was watching.

She turned her head sharply-but there was nothing. Just the endless stretch of Chicago's skyline.

It was ridiculous. Paranoia, maybe.

But deep in her gut, she felt it.

Something was coming.

Or rather...

Someone.

But now, I was beginning to suspect that the past I'd buried was about to dig itself back out.

The elevator dinged behind me. My heart skipped, a flicker of unease crawling up my spine.

It was probably just Anaya. Or the legal team.

But something in my gut twisted.

I didn't turn around. I waited.

Then-soft footsteps.

And then, a voice. Familiar. Calm. Dangerous.

"Didn't expect to find you here, Rebel."

The mug in my hand slipped and shattered against the floor.

Time stopped.

That voice.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

Riaan Malhotra. In the flesh.

Standing in my office as if he belonged here.

My blood ran cold.

He hadn't changed-still tall, still impeccably dressed in that devil-may-care way. But his eyes... they burned the same. That dark, quiet rage beneath the surface. And something else-possession.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice low, controlled.

"You work in my building, sweetheart. The real question is-what are you doing here?"

He stepped closer, and my body tensed involuntarily.

I forced myself not to step back.

"I didn't know you were involved in the Chicago wing," I said tightly.

"Now you do," he said, his gaze dropping to the broken mug. "Still dramatic, I see."

"You have no idea who I am anymore, Riaan," I snapped.

That smirk. God, that infuriating smirk.

"No? Then tell me-how many aliases have you used, Ira?"

My name on his lips felt like a violation.

"You have no right-"

"I have every right," he cut me off, voice dropping. "You ran from a contract. You ran from your father's empire. You ran from me."