Chapter 1

Ayana

The glass boardroom table reflects the morning light like a blade, splitting the room into power and performance. I sit at the head of it, posture carved from steel, heels crossed at the ankle, a navy silk blouse tucked sharp into tailored white trousers. A single gold cuff wraps my wrist, deliberate and gleaming like a promise I intend to keep. Every detail, from my matte lipstick to the slight angle of my chin, has been curated for this moment—for them. And still, I can feel it.

Something’s off.

The quarterly projections slide across the wall behind me, each new chart painting a picture of upward growth and market dominance. We’re outperforming. Beating competitors. Executing flawlessly. But in this room—where leather chairs creak softly and smiles are currency—I can smell the hesitation. It hangs behind the floral notes of someone’s expensive cologne, thick and stale.

I pause at the final slide and turn, letting the numbers speak for themselves. No one claps. They never do. Applause is for entrepreneurs. I’m a CEO now. Applause would mean they still think I need it.

Elliot Crane folds his hands with casual elegance, his platinum cufflinks catching the light like teeth. “Impressive, Ayana,” he says, voice lacquered with just enough warmth to make the insult glide. “Another strong quarter. Your algorithms are as precise as ever.”

He lets the silence linger, just long enough for discomfort to settle. Then, with the practiced flourish of a man who’s built his entire career on selective phrasing, he adds, “Of course… perception is everything these days. Even off the balance sheet.”

The room doesn’t shift, but I feel the undercurrent tighten. A couple of heads nod. One of the junior partners—Michael, maybe—glances up from his phone just in time to fake interest. No one calls Elliot out. The implication is already out there, slinking across the mahogany table like smoke:

You’re powerful, Ayana. But you’re alone.

I offer him a polite nod, the kind that says nothing and means even less. “I’m glad the numbers meet expectations,” I reply evenly. “Though I’ll always favor substance over perception.”

He smiles. Thin, precise. “Naturally. But some investors… they prefer the full package.”

He says it like it’s a joke. Like we’re playing. But make no mistake, he’s testing boundaries. And I know better than to flinch when someone’s trying to measure your reaction.

Instead, I lean back slightly in my chair, steepling my fingers. “If you’re referring to ThorneTech’s product strategy, I believe we’ve delivered on all KPIs for this quarter.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” he says smoothly. “But as you know… optics matter.”

The words land soft as a feather and cut like glass. I’ve fought too long, built too much, to let them shake me. But there’s a particular sting to being reminded—again—that no matter how impeccable the numbers, I’ll still be evaluated by the shape of my life. Not just the substance.

My ring finger is bare. My calendar has no partner dinners or charming Instagram photos. I’m a fortress without a drawbridge, and apparently, that makes people nervous.

Across the room, Talia catches my eye. Just a flick of her gaze, sharp and unreadable. She doesn’t speak, but I know that look. We’ll deal with it. Later.

For now, I simply smile. “If the board has any additional thoughts or concerns,” I say, “I’d be happy to address them privately. Otherwise, we can consider this meeting adjourned.”

I gather my notes with precise, unhurried movements. Control is its own kind of armor. Today, mine is bulletproof.

They nod like bobbleheads in bespoke suits—heads tilting at the right angles, expressions locked in that professional limbo between polite interest and disengagement. Lattes steam in ceramic mugs embossed with the ThorneTech crest, untouched but warm, like every person in this room is waiting to be served something they didn’t ask for.

Elliot leans forward ever so slightly, his fingers draped over the armrest like he’s holding court. “Some of our key stakeholders,” he begins, careful not to name names, “have expressed concern about leadership optics moving forward.”

He doesn’t elaborate. The word optics slides across the room like oil over water—sleek, ambiguous, and quietly flammable.

The message is clear: My numbers are flawless, my product is untouchable, but my image—me, Ayana Thorne, unpartnered and unapologetic—is beginning to unsettle the old guard.

I don’t flinch. I don’t narrow my eyes or lift a brow. That would give him too much. Instead, I reach for my tablet and scroll through the notes I’ve already memorized, as if his comment were nothing more than background noise.

But under my skin, the heat simmers. Not anger exactly—no, anger would be indulgent. It’s that sharper thing. Resentment wrapped in restraint.

Because I know what Elliot sees when he looks at me. He sees a Black woman who owns every inch of this empire but refuses to soften it with a husband or a hint of domesticity. He sees efficiency with no emotional buffer. Command without charm. A threat.

Single. Female. Unbothered. God forbid I also be successful.

One of the junior board members—a Stanford MBA with a pedigree and the spine of a celery stalk—clears his throat like he might add something. Then thinks better of it. Of course he does.

They don’t want a partner. They want a story. A picture that feels palatable. Ayana Thorne as the visionary founder, yes—but only if I can also be the charming dinner guest, the soft-spoken fiancée, the relatable headline.

They want me branded like an accessory. A powerful woman… but also relatable, smiling beside a man. I built a global tech company, and what they want is a meet-cute.

Across the table, Talia glances at her watch, the tiniest signal in our unspoken language: Wrap this up. We’re done here.

So I lift my eyes to Elliot, give him a look that could carve marble, and say, “I appreciate the feedback.”

Nothing more. Nothing less. Let them sit in the silence with their own discomfort. I didn’t get to the top by making men feel at home in their assumptions.

The meeting wraps with a smattering of chair shuffles and dry well-wishes. I stand slowly, nodding to each board member in practiced sequence, as if their platitudes mean more than they do.

“Thanks again, Ayana. Brilliant as always.”
“We’ll follow up by EOD.”
“Really impressive leadership.”

Their compliments are a currency I no longer cash. I offer the same smile I’ve worn since I walked into this room: effortless, gracious, exact. The kind of smile that belongs on a magazine cover or a performance review. Not in the privacy of real thought. It’s a smile designed to disarm without inviting intimacy.

I shake hands with two of them, exchange one more brittle look with Elliot, and stride toward the elevator like I own the building—because I do. But today, ownership feels less like power and more like a well-furnished cage.

The elevator doors glide open on command. As soon as I’m alone inside, I let the expression drop. Just a fraction. Not weakness—never that. But something closer to weariness wrapped in satin.

I press the button for the executive floor, lean back against the cold wall, and let the silence press in.

Slowly, I remove my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. The steel doors reflect me back in muted grayscale: sleek ponytail still tight, lip color still perfect, eyes ringed in the kind of fatigue that doesn’t show on quarterly reports.

Poised. Flawless. And tired. God, I’m tired.

Tired of being assessed like a balance sheet. Tired of calibrating every facial expression for public digestion. Tired of performing femininity like it’s a quarterly deliverable that requires proof of concept.

I built this company from an empty basement and five lines of code. I sold my first algorithm before I could legally toast to it. I learned to pitch under pressure, to lead in heels, to outmaneuver investors who smiled at me like I was something delicate and disposable.

And apparently, unless I have a man beside me, I’m still unfinished.

The elevator dings softly as it rises. I reapply the armor—glasses on, jaw set, spine straight. There’s no time to unravel.

There’s never time.

My office greets me like an obedient understudy: quiet, polished, waiting for cues. The skyline stretches beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, all glass and ambition. Below it, Chicago pulses—gritty and golden in the mid-morning light, alive with the illusion of progress.

Talia’s already there, perched on the corner of my desk like it’s hers, a fresh espresso in one hand and her phone in the other. Her blazer is black, double-breasted, cinched to kill. Her nails are the color of expensive danger. Burgundy, glossy, sharp.

Without looking up, she says, “You need a plus-one, boss.”

I drop my tablet on the desk with a soft thud and give her a pointed look. “I need another server stack and a week without PR emergencies. Not a boyfriend.”

She finally meets my eyes, arching one brow with practiced elegance. “Investors don’t want logic. They want narrative. And right now, you’re a power fantasy without a heart.”

I raise a brow, folding my arms. “You’ve been workshopping that line since the board meeting, haven’t you?”

“Since the last press junket.” She tosses her phone on the desk and reaches into her folder like she’s about to unveil classified intel. “Look, we both know Elliot’s been laying groundwork for a shift. He wants you unsteady. A ‘personal evolution’ storyline would buy us some goodwill.”

“Goodwill?” I echo, jaw tight.

She slides an envelope across the desk, crisp and heavy, like it belongs in a vault.

I don’t open it yet. The seal alone tells me enough—dark embossing, minimalist font, ostentatious weight. One of those weddings. The kind with whispered equity deals between champagne toasts and NDAs hidden in the dessert menu.

Talia taps the top of the envelope. “Reynolds and Li. Fusion Labs merger. Full VC set expected. Press will be there. You know the drill.”

Of course I do. These weddings are less about vows and more about valuation. Every photo, every plus-one, every laugh at the right moment. It all becomes part of your brand identity.

I walk over to the window, letting the light stripe across my shoulder like armor. “And if I show up alone?”

“Then Elliot gets to frame you as the ice queen who can’t connect. The board wobbles. And the vultures start circling.”

“Do I get a choice in any of this?”

Talia’s voice softens, barely. “Of course you do. You’re the CEO.”

I turn to look at her. She doesn’t blink. I realize this isn’t a suggestion. It’s a strategic directive from the only person who’s ever had both my schedule and my soul on lock.

“Fine,” I say, grabbing the espresso and taking a sip. It’s scalding, bitter, perfect. “Set up the screening. I want someone discreet, decent-looking, and emotionally bulletproof.”

Talia grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The envelope sits between us like a threat wrapped in cardstock. I don’t touch it. The second Talia handed it over, the decision was already working its way under my skin.

Still, I pace.

One heel clicks softly across the marble in my office, a slow staccato against the city’s heartbeat humming beyond the glass. I don’t look at her. If I do, I’ll see that smug little arch of her brow that says you know I’m right.

“I shouldn’t have to perform emotional relatability to justify success,” I say, more to the window than to her.

“You shouldn’t,” Talia agrees, crossing her legs. “But you built an empire in a sandbox that was never meant to hold you. So yeah, sometimes you have to stage the illusion of warmth while you’re torching the rules.”

I scoff, stopping just short of the credenza. “You always make manipulation sound so poetic.”

“Call it what you want. You bring a date, you rewrite the narrative. Instead of the ‘detached CEO,’ you’re suddenly the ‘visionary who finally made room for love.’ They’ll eat it up.”

I fold my arms, pressing a fingertip against my lips in thought. I hate this. Every inch of it. But I didn’t rise from a basement startup to a billion-dollar valuation by clinging to my principles when the optics shift. I’ve outmaneuvered hostile takeovers and silent saboteurs. I can certainly survive a wedding.

But if I’m going to do this… I’ll do it my way.

“I’m not interested in arm candy,” I say finally, turning toward her. “I want someone convincing. No drama. No baggage. No risk of this becoming gossip fodder in six months.”

Talia leans forward slightly, lips twitching at the corners. “So… you want someone safe. Harmless. Handsome enough to photograph well, smart enough to fake chemistry, and bland enough not to cause internal HR violations.”

I blink slowly. “Was I unclear?”

She grins. “Set up the screening?”

I take another sip of the espresso, now lukewarm but bracing. My voice is low, resigned. “And get PR on standby.”

Talia stands and smooths her blazer, already five moves ahead. “Already done.”

Just like that, it’s in motion. The press will whisper. The board will relax. The world will see what they want: Ayana Thorne, conqueror of code, finally paired off like a prize thoroughbred.

I tuck the envelope into my bag without another glance. This is the cost of staying ahead.

Let them watch.

By the time I reach my penthouse, the city has already slipped into that twilight hush—streetlamps blooming like slow-burning stars, traffic thinning to a rhythm that no longer demands urgency. I shut the door behind me with a soft click, letting the quiet take hold.

The heels come off first—Manolo Blahniks, navy suede, twelve hours of unrelenting authority now lined neatly by the front door. My blouse follows, unbuttoned with precision, draped over the arm of a velvet chair like silk surrender. I peel off the lashes, swipe away the matte stain of professionalism from my lips, and unhook the gold cuff that held my day together like armor.

My hair slips down next, tumbling across my shoulders in a soft, unruly fall that never makes it into corporate headshots.

In this space—walls curved with light, floors kissed by heat, jazz vinyl humming low from hidden speakers—there’s nothing but breath and memory. And I’m suddenly aware of just how long it’s been since I let myself feel anything that didn’t require calculation.

I settle into the chaise by the window, legs tucked beneath me, Chicago glittering at my feet like a city kneeling in worship. But all I feel is hollow.

I replay the meeting in fragments—Elliot’s voice, smug and silk-slick. The way the boardroom lights buzzed faintly overhead. The tension between Talia’s concern and her command. The smile I wore like scaffolding. The weight of being looked at and not seen.

Seventy-seven minutes of control. And not once did anyone ask how I was doing.

Not that I’d have told them.

I didn’t come this far—didn’t grind and build and bleed for this company—just to be reduced to a ring finger. To be asked if I was whole without someone’s last name trailing mine like punctuation.

But I’m smart enough to know when perception threatens progress. I know how this world works—especially for women like me. Women who are too successful, too polished, too alone.

So if they want a story? I’ll give them a damn good one. Let them believe I’ve softened. Let them swoon over staged couple photos and fake affection. Let them write articles about “love changing everything.”

Because beneath the performance, the strategy remains the same.

I don’t lose. Not in business. Not in optics. And certainly not in war.