**The greatest tragedy of humanity isn't the death of a great hero or the arrival of a cruel villain. It's the silencing of women who burn too brightly.**
Women born with fire in their eyes and courage in their bones but never given the oxygen to let it spread.
Women who learn early that their light must be contained, controlled, and converted into something palatable for a world that fears what it cannot extinguish.
I see them everywhere - the women who tried. The ones who dared to dream beyond their station.
The pretty ones reduced to decorations, the smart ones punished for knowing too much, the bold ones broken into smaller, safer pieces. Society watches their deaths in slow motion and calls it natural selection.
I learned the rules before I learned algebra. Keep your voice below the decibel of male discomfort.
Let your achievements be impressive but not intimidating. Smile when they take credit for your ideas. Nod when they explain your own field to you. The system rewards those who play along and breaks those who won't.
Sometimes I want to set the whole world on fire with the heat of my rage.
I want to scream until my voice shatters every glass ceiling in this godforsaken industry. I want to tear down every condescending smirk with my bare hands.
But I don't.
I stand very still. I watch. I wait.
Because the game isn't won through tantrums. It's won through perfect, precise pressure applied to exactly the right weak points. And I intend to win.
...................................................
**Hotel Adlon Kempinski, Berlin**
**7:34 PM**
The banquet hall swallows me whole, a glittering beast of crystal and gold.
Outside, Berlin wears its winter armor, but in here the air shimmers with wealth so thick you could choke on it. I peel off my overcoat and let my gaze adjust to the calculated opulence.
My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors shows a woman dressed more for a business presentation than a gala: black skirt razor-straight to my ankles, white shirt tucked in, and Louboutins sharp enough to draw blood if necessary.
I am Ayana Bae Fernandes, 25 years old, a marketing analyst for S.Studio. That's what at least my business cards claim.
What they don't say: I'm the girl who clawed her way out of a Mumbai apartment where dreams went to die. The student who worked three jobs in Hong Kong while my classmates lived on trust funds.
The woman who learned that talent means nothing without teeth sharp enough to make them notice you.
"Anaya! There you are!"
Hugo Cardin, all French charm and calculated dishevelment. He moves through these rooms like he was born to them - which he was. Third-generation film industry royalty with the connections to prove it.
"Traffic," I lie smoothly, accepting the champagne flute he presses into my hand.
His lips quirk. "Of course. The infamous Berlin traffic at seven PM on a Thursday." He knows I'm lying. I know he knows. This is our dance.
He is an annoying kind but a good friend to share a champagne with.
The room hums with the particular frequency of power - the low vibration of important people pretending not to notice how important they all are.
My team clusters near an ice sculpture that probably costs more than their monthly rent, trying not to gawk at the A-list talent walking around like some rare, breathtaking gems.
I leaned near the wall with the untouched champagne glass in my hand. Mostly to observe the entire banquet hall.
Then I see him.
Sebastian von Kleist stands head and shoulders above the crowd, a giant of 6 feet 7 inches, a blonde in a navy Tom Ford suit that hugs his athlete's frame like a second skin. Rumor says he turned down Hollywood to run his family's production empire.
Rumor also says he's broken more careers than he's made.
A pathetic, arrogant, golden-spoon-fed man.
And he's looking directly at me. What the fu-
Not glancing. Not scanning the room. Looking with the focused intensity of a predator who's spotted something that doesn't belong in his ecosystem.
I hold his gaze just long enough to make it clear I won't be the one to look away first, then turn with deliberate calm to accept a canapé from a passing waiter. The caviar bursts salty and cold against my tongue.
I don't let my hands shake. I hope I hadn't worn my glasses tonight; probably I won't have noticed that dangerously beautiful pair of ice-blue eyes.
"Anny! There you are!"
Louis Laurent, S.Studio's marketing director and the closest thing I have to a mentor in this snake pit, claps a hand on my shoulder.
At fifty-eight, with more industry awards than ex-wives (and that's saying something), Louis moves through the world with the cheerful ruthlessness of a man who's survived every trend and outlasted every rival.
"You look exhausted," I tell him, plucking the whiskey tumbler from his hand and replacing it with mineral water.
He grimaces but doesn't protest. "My back is killing me."
"Maybe don't try to keep up with your twenty-five-year-old interns then," I say sweetly.
Louis barks out a laugh loud enough to turn heads. "This is why I keep you around, Anny. No one else insults me to my face." He drains the water in one go. "Come. There are people you need to meet."
The circle he leads me to contains enough collective power to greenlight or bury any project in Europe. And at its center, like a blonde monolith, stands Sebastian von Kleist.
Louis makes introductions with theatrical flair. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the sharpest mind in my department - Ayana Fernandes. She's the reason our last three films outperformed projections by thirty percent."
A woman in a Dior gown that probably costs more than my ruby earrings studies me over the rim of her champagne flute. "Indian? How interesting. What brings you to Berlin?"
"Cold hard cash," I deadpan, and the circle erupts in laughter. All except von Kleist, who watches me with those arctic eyes.
When the laughter dies, his voice cuts through the chatter like a scalpel. "What do you think of Winter's Gaze, Ms. Fernandes?"
Every head turns. This isn't curiosity - it's a test. The kind powerful men give to women they're deciding whether to take seriously or destroy.
I take my time answering, letting the silence stretch just to the edge of discomfort. "It will succeed if the director remembers he's adapting a novel, not creating a manifesto. The book's fans want to see the story they love, not his artistic interpretation of it."
Someone inhales sharply. The book's author stands three feet to my left.
Von Kleist's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those frozen eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? "That's quite the critique for someone in marketing."
"Marketing is understanding what people want before they do," I say. "And right now, they want faithfulness to the source material. Not a vanity project."
The silence could freeze vodka. Then the author bursts out laughing. "I like her, Louis. Can we keep her?"
Louis squeezes my shoulder too tight, the way he does whenever some ass tries to bother me. A literal father figure, I have to admit, "I'm afraid she's not for sale."
Von Kleist finally smiles, cold and deadly. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Everything's for sale, Louis. The question is the price."
Our gazes lock. The back of my eyes burned under his icy gaze.