Chapter 3 No.3

The days bled into a gray, monotonous fog.

Every morning, Cecil's phone would light up with news alerts. "Tech Mogul Cleve Drake and Protégé Ivanna Mccarty Shine at Children's Hospital Gala." Photos of them were everywhere. Cleve, handsome and commanding. Ivanna, radiant at his side, looking at him with an expression of pure adoration. An expression that used to be Cecil's.

The pain was a low, constant hum beneath the surface of her life. A chronic condition with no cure.

At the research center, the atmosphere had changed. The staff was polite, but distant. They saw the same photos she did. They drew their own conclusions.

One afternoon, in the main conference room, Ivanna was presenting her preliminary research findings to the board. Cecil sat at the head of the table, a silent observer.

Ivanna, dressed in a lab coat that was a size too small, looking exactly like Cecil had ten years ago, pointed to a slide. "And this projection, based on Dr. Drake's-I mean, Dr. Farley's foundational work, shows..."

A board member, Mr. Harris, smiled. "Your work is very impressive, young lady. It's clear you've learned from the best. It's wonderful to see you carrying on the Drake family's legacy of innovation."

Ivanna blushed. "I just hope I can live up to the standard Cecil-Dr. Farley-has set." She looked at Cecil, her eyes wide and sincere.

Cecil wanted to speak, to correct him. It was the Farley legacy, bought with Drake money. But the words wouldn't come. She was a figurehead in her own life.

The final blow came during the Q&A. Cecil offered a technical critique of Ivanna's methodology, a gentle course correction.

"That's an interesting point, Cecil," Cleve said, his voice smooth and dismissive. He was attending via video conference, his face looming on the large screen. "But Ivanna is approaching this from a fresh perspective. We shouldn't constrain her with old paradigms."

He turned his smile to Ivanna's image on the screen. "You're doing fine, Ivanna. Don't let the purists slow you down."

The room was silent. He had called her a purist. He had stripped her of her authority in front of her own team and sided with the intern. He had reduced a decade of her life's work to an "old paradigm."

Later, Ivanna found her in the hallway.

"Cecil, I'm so sorry," she said, her face a mask of concern. "I think you were right about the control group. I shouldn't have..."

"It's fine, Ivanna," Cecil said, her voice flat.

"No, it's not," Ivanna insisted, her eyes welling with tears. "I think... I think you're just having a hard time since Leo. Maybe you're not seeing things clearly. Cleve is worried about you. He thinks the stress is making you... aggressive."

Aggressive.

The word hung in the air between them. A label. A diagnosis. A weapon. Cleve wasn't just sidelining her. He was painting her as unstable.

That evening, the final pieces of the old world fell away.

Cleve was hosting a dinner for investors. Cecil stood by the fireplace, a ghost at her own party. She watched as Cleve laughed, charming the room. He walked over to Ivanna, who was talking to a senator. He gently touched the small of her back, a small, possessive gesture he used to reserve for Cecil. He guided her through the crowd, his hand never leaving her.

It was a public declaration.

Then, he did the one thing that finally, irrevocably, broke her. He poured two glasses of champagne, handed one to Ivanna, and raised his glass to the room.

"To the future," he said, his eyes locked on Ivanna. "And to new beginnings."

The room erupted in applause.

Cecil felt a strange calm settle over her. She watched them, a perfect couple framed by candlelight. She raised her own untouched glass in a silent toast.

Then she turned, walked out of the room, and left the party without a word. She was done.