The studio lights burned hotter than usual. A sleek white couch, soft music underscoring each question, and the subtle click of cameras created the illusion of calm professionalism. Miley Rowe sat at the center of it all, composed in a navy power suit, her hands folded, her smile guarded but sincere. The backdrop behind her read: She Built This: Women Changing the Game.The documentary’s producer, Darla Keene, perched on her high stool across from Miley, armed with curated warmth and a cue card stack she wasn’t supposed to deviate from.“Let’s talk about the beginning,” Darla said brightly. “You were barely twenty-three. No investors. Just an idea. What was driving you?”Miley smiled. “Necessity and stubbornness.”A ripple of laughter moved through the small studio audience. The stage crew chuckled behind their headsets. All seemed in sync.Darla nodded. “You have credited your late nights and part-time jobs. But… we actually have someone here who says he played a big role in those ea

The morning after the Concordia Gala was quiet in Midtown…too quiet, for a city that usually woke up screaming. But in the penthouse apartment nestled atop a prewar building lined with wrought iron balconies and old world charm, quiet was not peace.It was a calculation.Miley stood on the balcony wrapped in one of Julius’s linen shirts, the fabric brushing her thighs, the hem barely meeting the curve of her wrist. Her fingers curled around a warm coffee mug, untouched. Her phone lay screen-down on the table beside her. She had not checked it since last night, but she did not need to.The silence of the morning was not the absence of sound.It was the weight of aftershocks.Below, the headlines rolled in like waves, some cautious, others gleeful:“Power Couple Reshuffles Concordia Board in One Night.”“Miley Rowe’s Standing Ovation Overshadows Planned Honorees.”“The Fall of Evelyn Lachlan: Inside the Gala’s Most Awkward Moment.”The gossip blogs had been less kind.“When You See the Sp

Rain streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows of Quella’s penthouse, making the skyline blur and shimmer like a city drowning in its own reflection. Inside, the lights were off…only the occasional flicker of lightning illuminated the curated luxury: champagne flutes still drying on the marble counter, shoes abandoned on the velvet rug, and the open suitcase spilling designer dresses like entrails.Quella moved in controlled panic, her white blouse half-tucked, phone cradled between shoulder and cheek as she barked into it.“No, I told you, change the tail number. And no crew under thirty. I do not want anyone filming me on ClickVideo for a free upgrade.”She shoved an envelope of cash into her Birkin, lips pressed into a tight line.“No,” she snapped again, “no baggage tags. I am carrying everything onboard. Make it disappear.”She hung up.Then she paused at the edge of her walk-in closet….her breath hitched at the sight of a coat. A black wool trench with a faint coffee stain on

The rain fell steadily outside the private hospital, fogging the glass and muting the crash of waves beyond the cliffside. Nestled in a sleepy coastal town where secrets passed like fog and nothing made the news unless it bled, Quella had found a hiding place, at least for now.Room 304 was dim, hushed, and warm. The bassinet beside the bed creaked gently as Quella rocked it with one hand. Her daughter—unnamed still—slept without noise, a small miracle in the chaos of a collapsing world.It had been thirty-six hours since the delivery. Thirty-six hours since she had touched something pure.And for thirty-six hours, Quella had clung to a lie tighter than she ever clung to truth.She was no longer Quella Garcia, heiress and businesswoman. She was Clea Jenkins, age 31, widowed, overwhelmed, and recovering from an emergency C-section. A woman with pain in her eyes, blood under her nails, and no one waiting to pick her up.The nurses bought it. The admin staff, too. The baby quieted whenev

The town courthouse stood whitewashed against the gray morning sky, framed by salt-blown pines and the echo of the sea. Despite its modest exterior, inside the chamber pulsed with the gravity of decisions that could shape entire lives.Miley sat with the infant in her arms, her blazer dusted with rain, her expression still and unflinching. Julius stood behind her, unreadable as ever. On the opposite end of the room, Quella sat in a restraint chair behind a glass panel, her wrists cuffed loosely, her eyes darting from one official to the next.She had been sedated the night before. Now, stripped of eyeliner and bravado, her face looked younger, but no less dangerous.A child welfare officer stood at the center podium.“After reviewing the incident at the hospital, and evaluating the psychiatric assessments conducted over the past twenty-four hours, we submit our recommendation: Quella Jenkins, also known as Quella Garcia, is unfit for parental custody. Her actions pose a direct threat