"They Humiliated Her Simple Dress at the Gala—Until New York's Most Feared Man Stepped In."

I hadn't slept more than three hours. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flashing cameras at the Plaza, felt the warmth of Matteo’s hand over mine, and heard the echoes of Mabel Laurent’s vicious laughter.

By 9:15 AM, my desk phone rang.

“Ayla,” Jean Dubois’s voice crackled through the receiver, dripping with suppressed rage. “My office. Now.”

I didn't rush. I calmly saved my open documents, closed my spreadsheet, and stood up from my desk. Around me, my coworkers pretended not to notice, though every single one of them was staring intently at their computer screens, waiting for the axe to fall.

I walked down the carpeted hallway and pushed open the door to Jean’s corner office.

Mabel Laurent was sitting in one of the leather guest chairs, sipping a coffee, looking as smug as a cat that had just caught a canary. Jean stood behind his mahogany desk, his face flushed red with agitation.

“Shut the door, Ayla,” Jean snapped.

I closed the door quietly and remained standing near the entrance, refusing to sit down.

“Do you have any idea what you did on Friday night?” Jean began, his voice rising in pitch. “You managed to publicly insult Mabel Laurent, alienate one of our primary corporate benefactors, and draw the terrifying attention of Matteo Cipriani—all because you couldn't be bothered to dress appropriately for a high-society event!”

Mabel smiled sweetly over the rim of her coffee cup. “Father’s board of directors is already asking questions, Ayla. They want to know why some junior employee in a discount dress was parading around with a multi-billionaire while insulting our family.”

I looked at Mabel, then at Jean. The fear I had felt on Friday night was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve.

“I didn't insult anyone, Mr. Dubois,” I said clearly, my voice steady. “Mabel chose to mock my appearance in front of half the ballroom. Mr. Cipriani chose to intervene because he has basic human decency—something this office seems to lack.”

Jean’s jaw dropped so fast I thought it might detach. “Are you out of your mind?! You are speaking to a Laurent! You are talking back to your director!”

“I’m speaking the truth,” I replied calmly.

Mabel slammed her coffee cup down on the glass table, standing up in fury. “Get out! You’re fired! Effective immediately! We’ll ensure you never work in this city again, you ungrateful little nobody!”

I didn't flinch. I didn't cry.

I reached into my blazer pocket, pulled out a pre-printed letter of resignation I had drafted that morning, and laid it neatly on the center of Jean’s desk.

“You don't need to fire me, Mr. Dubois,” I said, offering a small, serene smile. “I quit.”

Before either of them could sputter another word, I turned on my heel, walked out of the office, and didn't look back once as I packed up my desk, walked out of the building, and stepped out into the crisp morning air of Manhattan.

My phone vibrated in my palm.

It was a text from an unknown number.

Matteo: Done with your meeting?

I looked down at the titanium card in my pocket, feeling a surge of pure, unadulterated freedom.