After I left, they begged for Forgiveness

Chapter 6- A glimpse of power

Valeria sat in her car outside The Halcyon.

Her fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, nails biting into the leather. Her heart was galloping like a racehorse, but her mouth whispered a lie she needed to believe.

“It’s going to be okay,” she breathed. “This is the beginning of the comeback.”

She tapped her screen and began recording a voice memo—meant only for the board.

“To the esteemed members of the board,” she began, voice composed, measured.

“I’ve just secured a private meeting with Elijah Quinn. This is not a loss. It’s a strategy. We’re going to get to the top again. I’ll make sure of it.”

She ended the recording, attached it to a secure group message, and sent it without hesitation.

Confidence. That was the key. Even if her world was slipping like sand between her fingers, she’d bluff her way through until it solidified again.

She opened her bag and checked her reflection in the mirror. Simple black t-shirt. Oversized jeans. No makeup. No accessories. Minimalist. Casual. Per Elijah’s text.

“No gowns. No drama. Come real. T-shirt and jeans. If you want to talk, talk like the person you were before you had something to lose.”

Cryptic. But she understood the message. Strip away the image. Show him she wasn’t too proud to come undone.

Valeria Langston, in baggy jeans and a black tee, slid out of the car and into the golden-lit lobby of The Halcyon’s private wing.

The elevator whooshed her up in smooth silence.

When the doors opened—

She froze.

The corridor was occupied . Crystals reflecting off golden chandeliers. Jazz music playing solemnly .

And then—

The suite doors ahead opened.

Inside, it was not a private meeting.

It was a gala.

A room full of people.

Men in tailored tuxedos, watches that cost fortunes . Women in expensive evening how’s.

Wine glasses clinked.

And standing near the center—Elijah Quinn.

Looking posed and obsidian. Black-on-black suit. Tie loosened, drink in hand. The Princess of Saudi Arabia leaving his side .

The moment Valeria stepped in, heads turned.

Eyes locked.

Then—

Whispers.

Followed by a snort.

And a laugh.

From somewhere near the bar:

“Is that... jeans?”

Another voice—low, sarcastic:

“Who let the intern in?”

Someone stifled a laugh behind a champagne flute.

Valeria’s heart plummeted into her stomach.

This couldn’t be real.

He told her jeans. He told her it was private.

She scanned the room again, praying she missed some hidden dress code—some hint this was all a joke. But no.

She was the only one dressed like a struggling college student who wandered into billionaire club night.

Was he trying to disgrace her?

Was this the point?

She turned, ready to flee, when a graceful woman in a silver uniform appeared beside her.

“Ms. Langston?” she asked, voice smooth, practiced.

Valeria’s jaw clenched. “Yes?”

“Master Quinn is requesting your presence.”

The words hit like a slap.

Master Quinn.

Not Mr.. Not Elijah.

That title meant something in this circle. And she—dressed like she belonged at a laundromat—was about to be paraded into a lion’s den.

She followed the woman in silence, chin up, rage swirling beneath her skin. The click of heels around her mocked her sock-clad sneakers.

People parted as she passed, whispering, smirking.

She could hear it.

“Is that Valeria Langston?”

“No way.”

“She used to own half this city…”

Her face burned, but she didn’t break.

Not yet.

Elijah turned as she approached, a slow smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Valeria,” he said smoothly. “Glad you got the dress code.”

The Princess beside him tilted her head, barely hiding a smile.

Valeria’s throat tightened. Her hands fisted at her sides.

He set her up.

He planned this.

All of it.

And still—this was her only chance.

She met his gaze with the last scrap of pride she had left and forced a smile.

The lights above cast a glow across his face.

The air smelled of oud, champagne.

Her t-shirt clung awkwardly to her skin, suddenly itchy, cheap. Her jeans hung loose around her hips.

Elijah took a slow sip from his glass, eyes never leaving hers.

“You came,” he said softly, the edges of his voice smooth. “But unfortunately, we won’t be talking tonight.”

Valeria blinked. “What?”

His smirk widened. “I said—there’s no meeting. Not with you. Not here. Not now.”

She stared, blood draining from her face. “You… told me to come.”

He chuckled, the sound low, private, like he was telling her an inside joke she would never understand.

“Did I?” he mused, then leaned in—his breath warm at her cheek. “Valeria, what on earth made you think this was a negotiation?”

Her breath caught. She stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing. “Then why?” she asked quietly. “Why go through all this? Why humiliate me like this?”

She forced herself to meet his eyes.

“This is about revenge,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Her voice was steady now. Hollow but calm. “It’s about what I did to you. The things I said. How I treated you. You want me to crawl now.”

Elijah tilted his head as if pondering, swirling the liquor in his glass like it held time itself.

“Revenge?” he repeated with a soft laugh. “You think this is about revenge?”

He stepped closer, voice dipping lower—intimate and deadly.

“Valeria… do you have any idea what you made me live through?” His tone never rose, but it grew colder. Sharper.

“You mocked me. Stripped me of dignity. Made sure every room I walked into after your betrayal saw me as broken. A ghost of a man you threw aside like a half-sipped drink.”

Valeria said nothing. Her throat burned, but she forced herself to stand still.

He smiled wider. “And now you want forgiveness?”

He leaned in, whispering the next words so only she could hear:

“That… is something that can’t be bought.”

He pulled back and drained his glass, eyes glittering.

“Have a nice evening, Valeria.”

And with that, Elijah turned his back on her, his long stride taking him toward the stage at the center of the room.

Valeria stood frozen,knees quaking.

And then—

The flashes began.

Paparazzi.

Reporters.

Click. Click. Click.

Valeria spun, shielding her face with her hand—only to lower it when she heard familiar voices.

From the back of the room, standing in judgmental formation—the board.

Her board.

Men and women in perfect suits, grim faces, judging eyes.

One of them—stepped forward, scoffing as he took in her outfit.

“My God,” he said, voice loud enough for the room to hear. “You came to the Business Summit dressed like a busker.”

Valeria’s heart stopped.

Business Summit?

She blinked in disbelief, trying to understand. No. That couldn’t be. The annual summit was months away—

Then her gaze shifted to the stage backdrop.

White letters sprawled across a silk banner:

TRIDENT GLOBAL SUMMIT – Hosted by Elijah Quinn.

Her stomach dropped.

He didn’t invite her for a meeting.

He lured her to a public stage.

He redefined the summit, made it early, made it his—

And made her a punchline.

“You’ve disgraced the company,” another board member snapped. “Look at you. You think this is how a leader shows up?”

Valeria opened her mouth, but no words came. Just the stifling press of shame and realization.

Elijah was already on stage. Already mic’d. Already smiling into the crowd as they cheered him on.

She saw it written all over his face.

He was ready to make her lose everything.

Her name.

Her company.

Her reputation.

Her power.