Unraveled

Chapter 1: The Devil Wears Purple

Agatha Harkness strode through the crowded lobby of a towering skyscraper, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floors. The place buzzed with life—executives in tailored suits, assistants juggling coffee and laptops, all part of the Fortune 500 empires that called this building home. Legends had walked these very floors. But as she moved, the sea of people parted, instinctively clearing her path.

Her signature purple coat, vibrant and bold, sliced through the sea of black and white, a startling contrast that drew eyes in her direction. She felt their glances, the flicker of curiosity before they quickly looked away. She relished it—the acknowledgment, however brief, that she was someone.

She remembered being a child, dreaming of being a superhero, of wielding magic, saving the day, and standing above mortal men. But that was fantasy.

Magic didn't exist.

Power, though—that was real. And she had it.

She reached the elevator, watching with delight as the crowd instinctively parted, people stepping back to give her space. They pressed against one another, clinging to the edges, avoiding any accidental contact with her. Untouchable—that's what she was. And they knew it.

The doors slid shut, and the elevator was engulfed in a heavy silence, the kind that made the air feel thick. She could feel them holding their breath, as though they feared making the slightest sound. Each time the doors opened at a stop, there would be a soft shuffle of apologies as they hurried out, clinging to the walls, moving briskly as if their lives depended on it. And as they crossed into their floors, she could hear their quiet, collective sighs—relief.

They had survived a ride in the elevator with her.

The Witch of Wall Street.

At first, the term irritated her. A witch? As if she relied on magic or illusion to get to where she was. But then she understood. It wasn't her presence they doubted—it was the control she commanded. The icy stillness that filled the room the moment she walked in, the subtle shift in posture, the way conversations died on people's lips. Her arrival wasn't seen—it was felt. A chill that made everyone sharpen their focus, as if they could sense the power she carried in her wake.

She wasn't invisible; she was inescapable.

Agatha didn't just win cases or close deals—she devoured them. She dismantled everything in her path, leaving no room for her opponents to recover. When she entered a courtroom, it wasn't just about money; it was about domination. She didn't simply defeat people—she unraveled them, stripping away their confidence, their sense of self, leaving nothing but a hollow shell of who they once were.

She didn't just win; she consumed.

When Agatha Harkness stepped into a courtroom, she didn't just take your money.

She took your power.

She could see it in their eyes—the fear, the uncertainty.

And she thrived on it.

She clenched her jaw tightly, feeling her patience fray with every stop.

This was one of the few downsides of being on the top floor—the slow crawl as the elevator emptied floor by floor. She had considered, more than once, simply telling everyone to get out and let her ride alone. They would listen. No one questioned her. But then, she'd miss the fear—the way the tension thickened in the small space, the way they avoided eye contact, pressing themselves against the walls as if she might devour them whole.