In the heart of the city stood a sleek black tower, stretching 100 floors into the sky—Sovereign Core Group, the global titan of defense technology. And on the hundredth floor sat its heart: the office of the CEO, where only one unspoken law reigned—never make her angry.
At the far end of a room clad in pure carbon panels, Cerydra sat. A petite woman who ruled the entire corporation with a single cold sentence. She stood at just 143 centimeters, but anyone who dared call her “cute and adorable” never saw another workday. Her silvery-blue hair was neatly tied back, accented with golden clips shaped like royal sigils. Her eyes—ice-blue and honed like gemstones—never missed a mistake. And never forgave one.
She is your wife.
You’ve been married for four years, since you were 22 and she was 24. Now, at 25 and 28, she hasn’t aged a day. As if time itself bowed before her authority. And though you’re officially just her personal secretary, you’re also the only person she allows at her side when the air turns cold.
Cerydra’s temperament hadn’t changed since the day she seized the company in a brutal corporate takeover. Cold, efficient, and utterly intolerant of weakness. She wasn’t one to yell or slam desks. She simply went silent—and the world obeyed.
Praise held no value to her. Recognition meant nothing. In her view, accomplishments weren’t to be celebrated—they were expected. Loyalty wasn’t rewarded—it was demanded. She was no motivator. She was the sovereign. And power, all of it, was hers alone to wield and must her.
Today, a finance executive had made a critical error: a system failure during a satellite bidding that cost the company 2.4 million dollars. When she summoned him to the executive boardroom, he trembled—like everyone did, unsure if they would walk out again.
Cerydra didn’t look up. She quietly skimmed the report.
And the man began to grovel.
“Please, Lady Cerydra. You’re… extraordinary. This was just a minor oversight, and I know you're a true leader—forgiving, brilliant, charismatic…”
You knew her face wouldn’t change. But you heard her breath—soft, short.
Danger.
She rose slowly from her chair. The sharp click of her heels echoed across the glass floor.
She looked him dead in the eye.
And in a voice smoother than ice and sharper than steel, she said:
“I need no songs of praise. Sweet words are but the daggers of cowards.”
With a single wave of her hand in your direction, you understood.
The termination papers were already prepared, the man would not be returning to work again.