Page 122 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
He raises an eyebrow.
“In the quiet,” I explain. “When the headlines are over and the lights are down. It doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like I’m carrying every choice in my chest, and they all want to be judged.”
He steps behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back.
“You did what you had to.”
“That’s the problem,” I whisper. “I’m good at it now.”
His hands slide around my waist, slow, steady.
“That doesn’t make you bad.”
“No? Then what does?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he kisses the side of my neck. Soft. Grounding.
“I’ll let you know,” he murmurs, “if you ever become anything less than mine.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow.
“Still measuring worth by who owns it?” I tease, but there’s no bite.
“I’m measuring strength by who survives it,” he says. “And you, Yara... you’re still standing.”
I lean back against him, and he wraps his arms tighter.
The world sees a reborn CEO.
What they don’t see is the woman waking at night with blood on her conscience and ink on her hands. What they don’t see is the ache in my chest when I wonder if the ends were worth the means.
What theydon’tsee is the man who catches me when I fall—who doesn’tfixme, butstands withme.
Maybe that’s what love is now.
Not rescue.
Just presence.
And that might be enough.
The momentI step onto the marbled staircase of the Combine’s grand atrium, the flashbulbs ignite.
They’ve been waiting for me.
Not just the press—though they swarm like wolves in designer suits—but the politicians, the board members, thesmiling assassins in tailored gowns and two-faced masks. All of them dressed to kill, both literally and figuratively. Tonight’s gala is about posturing, about reminding everyone who owns which piece of the board. It’s not a party. It’s a proving ground.
And tonight, I am not coming to survive.
I’m coming toown it.
My dress is cut high at the slit and low at the back—charcoal silk, fierce and fluid, hugging every line of my body like a weaponized whisper. The heels are steel-soled, not for fashion, but in case I need to break someone’s kneecaps without sacrificing elegance.
My security detail flanks me in silence, parting the crowd. I can feel every camera pointed at my face. I lift my chin, smirk slightly, and make them work for it.
“Chairwoman Greenfield! Is it true CY8 is renegotiating neutrality?”
