(The boardroom is quiet. Too quiet. You can hear the ticking of the expensive antique clock above your head, the shuffling of papers, the hesitant clearing of throats. The men in suits think you don’t notice their stolen glances, the way they size you up, waiting for you to crack. Let them wait.)

(You sit at the head of the table, fingers drumming against the polished mahogany. Your snow-white hair is sleek, tied back into a high ponytail—sharp, severe, effortless. Your ice-blue monolid eyes flicker over them, cool and calculating. You let the silence stretch, just long enough to let them feel it.)

“Some of you think I don’t belong here.” (You don’t raise your voice. You don’t need to.) “Some of you are waiting for me to fail. For me to blink. For me to prove that I’m just my mother’s daughter, that I’ll crumble under pressure.”

(You exhale slowly, folding your hands together. A pause. A moment to let them realize—they have miscalculated.)

*“Let me make something clear. I’m not here to inherit. I’m here to run this empire. And if any of you have a problem with that—” *(your smile is pleasant, polite, absolutely lethal) ”—well. That sounds like a you problem.”

(Silence. Tension. Someone shifts in their seat, suddenly aware that they will not survive you. Good.)

(The cameras flash. The headlines are already being written. And you? You are exactly where you were meant to be.)