108
Miranda's POV
The shrill beeping of my alarm clock pulled me from the tendrils of sleep. Groaning softly, I reached over and silenced it, blinking at the illuminated display. 6:00 a.m. Like clockwork, my morning routine beckoned. I stretched languidly, savoring the satisfying pop of my joints before sitting up and reaching for the Stanley cup on my bedside table. The warm water slid down my throat, refreshing and grounding me. This ritual, mundane as it was, had become my solace—a moment of calm before the storm that each day inevitably brought.
I padded to the mirror and paused, gazing at my reflection. My face was serene, yet my eyes betrayed a storm of emotions—a reflection of the chaos that had become my life. Brushing off the lingering doubts, I moved into the bathroom, brushing my teeth with a vigor that felt almost therapeutic.
Emerging with a towel wrapped securely around me, I noticed the tray of breakfast waiting on my table. Toasted bread, creamy tea, and coffee. A soft smile touched my lips. My staff always knew how to please me, yet my appetite was absent. The weight of unspoken challenges pressed down on me as I got dressed, opting for a tailored black pantsuit that screamed authority.
After applying light makeup and grabbing my Louis Vuitton bag, I descended the grand staircase and stepped into my Lamborghini. My Rolls-Royce had been my choice all week, but today felt like a day for speed—a day to cut through the noise and face whatever awaited me.
The drive to my office was uneventful, but as soon as I stepped out of the car, a sense of unease prickled at the back of my neck. My employees lined up outside, greeting me with polite smiles, but their glances were loaded with something else—whispers of disapproval, perhaps fear. I offered a curt nod, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as I ascended to my office.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted me as I pushed open the door, but it was Clara’s pale face that drew my attention. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her hands clutching a tablet so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Clara,” I began, placing my bag on the desk. “What’s wrong?”
Her gaze darted to mine, panic swimming in her wide eyes. “Madam, it’s... it’s all over the news. You’re trending,” she stammered, her voice breaking slightly.
I stiffened, a cold knot forming in my stomach. “Trending? What are you talking about?”
She handed me the tablet, her fingers trembling. “Someone uploaded a video... they’re accusing you of kicking out your stepmother and stepsister from the mansion. They’re painting you as cruel and heartless.”
My jaw tightened as I took the tablet and pressed play. The video played a montage of photos and clips, overlaid with a sensationalized narration:
“The CEO of Emperor’s Company, Miranda Martins, has reportedly thrown her stepmother and stepsister out of her mansion. This act of malice has sparked outrage, with many questioning her character. How could someone so influential be so heartless?”
I set the tablet down with a soft thud, my hands curling into fists. My reflection in the screen showed my jaw clenched and eyes blazing. How dare they?
“This is absurd,” I hissed, standing abruptly. Clara flinched but quickly composed herself.
“I don’t understand how they got this footage,” she murmured, her voice apologetic.
“Of course you don’t. That’s because it wasn’t them—it was Mara and her mother. They set this up,” I snapped, pacing the room. “They think they can tarnish my name and walk away unscathed? They’ve underestimated me.”
The day unfolded in a blur of suppressed rage and calculated moves. I warned my employees sternly: “If I hear a word against me in this building, there will be consequences.” Their silence was deafening, but the tension in the air was palpable.
Later, Clara and I headed to a business appointment with a potential investor. The meeting went smoothly, but on our way back to the office, Clara’s sudden gasp jolted me from my thoughts.
“Madam,” she whispered urgently, pointing ahead.
My eyes followed her trembling finger to the scene outside the building. A mob of reporters and protesters swarmed the entrance, microphones raised, cameras flashing. The cacophony of voices and the flurry of movement sent my pulse racing.
“Should we use the underground entrance?” Clara asked, her voice laced with worry.
“No,” I said firmly, my gaze locked on the chaos. “I won’t hide. Let them see me.”
Clara nodded hesitantly as our car approached. The moment the door opened, the mob surged forward, shouting questions and accusations.
“Ms. Martins, did you really throw your stepmother and stepsister out?”
“Is it true you’re heartless?”
“Don’t you feel guilty after your father’s passing?”
The questions rained down like blows, each one designed to chip away at my composure. But I stood tall, my face a mask of calm defiance.
“Yes, I removed them from my home,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Because they jeopardized our company’s interests and betrayed my trust. I will not apologize for protecting what’s mine.”
The reporters buzzed like angry bees, their questions growing sharper.
“Isn’t that too cruel?”
“Couldn’t you have handled it differently?”
My lips curled into a cold smile. “Should I have allowed them to continue their deceit and manipulation? If that makes me cruel, so be it.”
Suddenly, a movement in the crowd caught my eye. A man with a cup of liquid raised his arm, aiming directly at me. Time seemed to slow as the cup arced toward me—but before it could hit, a strong arm pulled me back.
I turned, startled, to find Nolan standing protectively in front of me. His sharp eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the chaos faded.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice steady despite the storm around us.
I nodded, my breath hitching slightly. “Yes. Thank you.”
Nolan turned to the crowd, his presence commanding. “Back off!” he barked, his voice booming. The mob hesitated, the intensity in his gaze forcing them to retreat slightly.