Crown of the Empire

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The morning of the launch felt like waking up to the first page of a glossy magazine—except I wasn't just the cover girl, I was the entire headline.

The moment I opened my curtains, Manila greeted me with a thousand flashbulbs. Drones hovered beyond the gates of the estate, paparazzi's lenses glinting like hungry eyes. They'd been camped out for three days already, hoping for a glimpse of me in pajamas, probably praying I tripped over the driveway in slippers. Tragic for them. I only tripped over stock markets, not floor tiles.

My phone was buzzing on the bedside table. Jules, of course.

"Darling!" his voice shrieked through the speaker, high-pitched enough to rattle the chandelier. "Do you know you're trending already and the event hasn't even started? Hashtag Banking Queen is number one. Oh, and ME–TakedoTakeover is at number three. Do you ever get tired of being viral?"

I yawned into the phone, flipping my hair back. "Every day. And yet the internet insists on worshipping me. Tragic."

"Not worshipping," he corrected, "obsessing. And I live for it. Also, are you aware half of Makati's elite are hyperventilating because you didn't release the guest list? Someone said they'd rather die than be excluded."

I smirked. "Perfect. Let's make sure they die socially then."

He cackled, somewhere between hyena and opera singer.

Two hours later, I was in a couture gown that would bankrupt an oil baron if they so much as looked at the receipt. Deep emerald silk that clung like sin, cut sharp enough to kill, and dripping with subtle beadwork that caught light like stars. My heels? Taller than the egos I'd crush later.

Makeup was sharp: eyeliner like a blade, lipstick in bloodred. I wasn't dressing to be beautiful. I was dressing to remind people power had a face—and it was mine.

In the mirror, I practiced my smile: polite enough to pass for grace, sharp enough to pass for threat. A smile that said: I can destroy you with numbers before the champagne is poured.

The ride to Shangri-La was a blur of screaming reporters, camera flashes so violent it felt like war. Jules was in the car with me, fanning himself dramatically with the event program.

"They're going to faint when you speak," he declared. "The bankers, the old money, the critics—they'll choke on their foie gras."

I arched a brow. "Let's hope they choke quietly. We don't need lawsuits."

The convoy pulled up in front of the hotel, and the red carpet stretched before us like a declaration of war. I stepped out, flashes exploding, microphones shoved forward with the desperation of vultures.

"Ms. Vergara, how do you feel launching the foundation today?"
"Is this a personal vendetta against your father's legacy?"
"Are you and Mr. Takedo planning a family next?"

I smiled, waved elegantly, and answered none of them. Silence was more terrifying than any quote.

Inside, the ballroom glittered. Chandeliers like constellations, polished floors reflecting gowns and tuxedos, and a stage with the new logo gleaming behind it: ME–Takedo Foundation. The initials were mine. They could never erase that.

As I walked in, whispers rippled like a tide. Some were reverent. Some were poisonous. All of them were mine to command.

The emcee's voice was background noise, just a hum beneath the chandeliers. My focus was the podium.

I'd done boardroom speeches, investor briefings, negotiations in skyscrapers where men twice my age tried to condescend me with cigar breath. But this was different. This wasn't about shareholders. This was about legacy. Mine. Ours.