Morana's Point Of View
The sleek black doors of Bridges & Co. loomed before me like a gateway to another battlefield, tall, polished, intimidating. The kind of doors that swallowed you whole if you walked in without purpose. But I wasn't afraid not today.
My heels clicked against the marble floor with unapologetic defiance, each step echoing through the high-ceilinged corridor like a war drum. The floor was so flawlessly polished I could see the determined reflection of my own face staring back at me. No fear. No hesitation. Just fire.
I wasn't here to beg for validation.
I wasn't here for redemption.
I was here to work.
Beside me, Nancy walked with the poise of a queen reclaiming her court. Her navy-blue pantsuit looked like it had been tailored by angels, hugging her body in all the right places, her heels just as sharp as her attitude. She exuded that rare kind of grace that could only come from surviving storms and coming out dry on the other side.
