Crown of the Empire

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The following morning, I didn't wake to the soft luxury of silk sheets or Nikolai's low, accented voice coaxing me out of sleep. No. I woke to chaos.

Not household chaos—the estate was too disciplined for that, with its quiet efficiency and staff gliding around like shadows—but economic chaos, bleeding straight from my phone.

Stocks in freefall. Pundits yelling on financial channels. Anchors declaring the "collapse of confidence in Vergara Banking."

And my father's name trending beside mine. Again.

When I arrived at Vergara HQ an hour later—alone, because Nikolai had been dragged into an emergency call with European regulators—the building looked like it was bracing for war.

Reporters clogged the sidewalks, their cameras flashing, microphones shoving toward me the moment I stepped out of the car.

"Miss Vergara, why did you withdraw your 35%?"

"Are you building a rival bank?"

"Is it true your fiancé is funding you?"

"Do you understand the instability you've caused?"

I smiled sweetly, adjusted my sunglasses, and let them take their shots. "Don't mistake volatility for collapse. The markets are emotional, I'm not."

I left it at that, sashaying through the glass doors as the lobby swallowed me whole.

Inside, it was worse. Employees huddled in anxious knots, whispers slicing through the marble air. I could feel their eyes following me—the daughter who had detonated their empire and walked away.

I didn't flinch. My heels clicked steady, my expression steel.

The boardroom doors were already ajar, voices spilling through in clipped, frantic bursts.

"...she sabotaged us—"

"...Karsten still holds forty-five percent, we can stabilize—"

"...the market thinks she knows something we don't—"

"...what if she builds a rival institution—"

I pushed the doors open and silence fell like a guillotine.

Twelve faces turned toward me—uncles, cousins, allies of my father. The men who had called me an "emotional liability," who had laughed when I first sat at this very table.

I set my bag on the table, slow. Precise.

"Don't stop on my account," I said, sliding into a chair. "Go ahead. Keep panicking. It suits you."

One of my uncles—Paolo, with his perpetual sneer and too-tight tie—leaned forward. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Yes," I said. "I ran the numbers. Did you?"

A ripple of discomfort ran through them. I could almost taste it.

Another voice chimed in, sharp. "This isn't just about numbers, Mariya. This is about stability. About reputation. And you've dragged your family's name through the mud."

I arched a brow. "Dragged? I believe that mud existed long before I touched it. I simply stopped pretending it was marble."

A few gasps. A chair scraped.

"Your father—" one of them started.

"Isn't here," I cut in. "And while he holds forty-five percent, I hold thirty-five. Which makes me the second-most powerful person in this room. Don't forget that."