Page 103 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
And I’m hers.
No matter what hell I have to walk through, no matter how much blood gets spilled on the way—I’ll carve a path back to her every time.
Even if it destroys me.
CHAPTER 17
YARA
The bastards are smart. I’ll give them that.
The new office they assign me is a palace—a pristine corner suite in CY8’s upper echelons, all glass walls and curated artwork, with a view that stretches across the city like it’s mine. Like I didn’t just lose it.
There’s even a bouquet on the desk when I walk in. White lilies and ice-pink roses, sleek and soulless. A note tucked between the petals: “For the new Vice Chair—here’s to a bright future. – D.T.”
I crumple it and toss it in the trash without a second glance.
The title sounds important. Vice Chair. It used to mean something—didmean something, when it belonged to my father, when it came with power, responsibility, real teeth. Now it’s just a collar. Velvet-lined, sure, but still tight around my neck.
Tidball made the offer himself. Smiling across the long oak table like he hadn’t orchestrated my complete political decapitation just days before.
“Yara,” he said, palms open, voice oozing concern, “the optics are messy right now. There’s too much scrutiny, too many external eyes. You’ve endured so much. This is a chance to breathe. To focus on legacy—not liability.”
Translation: Sit down. Smile pretty. Stay out of the way.
I’d like to tell him I flipped the table, or slapped the smug right off his face. But I didn’t. I smiled. I nodded. I accepted with all the grace and polish CY8 groomed into me from the time I was old enough to sit still in board meetings. I looked him dead in the eye and thanked him.
Then I excused myself to the bathroom and threw up in the marble sink.
I know what this is. It’s a muzzle. A pretty, photogenic one, tailored to my face. They keep me close, drape me in silk and smiles, trot me out when the cameras flash so the shareholders don’t panic. So the public still thinks the heiress is onboard. And in return, they strip away every scrap of control I have left.
I don’t fight it. Not openly. Not yet.
I play the part.
I sit in meetings and sip overpriced espresso while my department heads report tohim. I shake hands with senators and foreign dignitaries who used to treat me like a peer and now call me “darling” with that soft, condescending pity that makes my teeth ache.
I smile. I pose. I let them think I’ve rolled over.
Every smile feels like poison.
But behind the smiles, I start to prepare.
It starts small. A stray file downloaded here, a meeting transcript saved there. I log in late at night—no one questions it; insomnia is the grief response everyone expects. I copy everything to a secure drive Grau gave me before everything went to hell. The one he said to use only when I was ready.
I wasn’t ready then.
I am now.
Because here’s the thing no one seems to remember: I was born into this. Raised in boardrooms and black-tie negotiations.Groomed to wield power like a scalpel. And I might’ve lost the upper hand, but I didn’t lose my mind.
I watch Tidball like a hawk. Every move, every meeting, every public statement. He plays the benevolent overseer, the humble steward of my father’s legacy. He speaks ofpreserving values, ofstability, ofcontinuity. The press eats it up. Investors are thrilled. CY8’s stock soars.
And behind the scenes, he bleeds the company dry.
Diverts assets. Cancels defense contracts. Puts long-time staff on administrative leave without cause. I watch department after department fold into shadow subsidiaries with vague missions and unlimited budgets. I ask questions. He gives me reassurances. I nod and file them away, every lie a thread in the noose I’m slowly weaving.
He thinks I’m harmless now.
