They died on a Sunday. Her parents, the rulers of her world—cold, immaculate, untouchable—were gone in an instant.
A car crash. That's all it took.
There were no goodbyes. No last words. Just sirens. Headlines. Sympathy from people who didn't mean it.
She didn't cry at the funeral. She couldn't. Everyone was watching. Every camera, every board member, every competitor, waiting to see the young heiress fall apart. So, she wore black lace and heels and didn't shed a single tear.
When they lowered the caskets into the ground, Violet stood behind her, not saying anything. Just... standing there. Solid. Present. Like an anchor she didn't know she needed.
And for a moment—just a moment—she wanted to turn around and fall into her arms and scream: "I don't know who I am without them."
But instead, she said, "Send the car."
The company was hers within a month.
She was seventeen, and she was already holding power in her hands most people wouldn't taste in a lifetime.
They called her "The Velvet Blade." She was smart, ruthless, impossible to read.
She cut entire departments. Restructured divisions. Promoted people twice her age and fired those who questioned her decisions. The board admired her. Investors were thrilled. The media called her a genius.
But inside... it was different.
There were nights she would walk barefoot into her mother's closet and sit in the dark, pressing her forehead to the silk of her old dresses. She would breathe in the lingering perfume and whisper, "Are you proud of me now?"
She never got an answer.
Violet stayed by her side for a while—quiet and gentle as always. She never asked for a job, but she gave her one. It was nothing flashy. An assistant's title. Light work.
"You don't need to do this," Violet had said.
"You need money," she replied. "I'm giving it to you. Don't pretend you're too noble to accept it."
Violet had only smiled faintly. "Then I'll earn it. Not for you. For me."
She hadn't liked the answer. But she hadn't argued.
At meetings, she wore lipstick like armor. Walked like her mother. Spoke like her father. Her voice, once soft, now rang like cut glass. Every decision she made was deliberate, sharp, cold.
And yet—every time she passed Violet's desk, her eyes lingered a second too long.
Violet always greeted her with a small smile. No pretense. No fear. No awe.
She hated it.
She craved it.
She didn't know which one was worse.
"People are starting to talk," Violet said one day. They were alone in her office. Rain tapped against the windows.
"Let them."
"Not about you. About the company. About betrayal."
She looked up from her laptop. "You think I'm in danger?"
"I think..." Violet hesitated. "I think you're too alone. And alone people are easy to trap."
She laughed, but it was hollow. "You think I need protection?"
"I think," Violet said softly, "you need someone who actually cares."
That was the day she broke something.
She stood up so fast her chair clattered backward. Her voice cracked like thunder.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that! You think just because you played charity project and sat beside me in school, you know me?"
Violet didn't flinch. "I don't pretend to know you. But I know what pain looks like."
"You don't know anything," she hissed. "You've always been beneath me. A nobody. A parasite I pitied."
Silence.
Violet blinked once, then picked up her bag.
"Then I'll leave you to your throne," she whispered.
And she walked out.
She didn't come back.
That night, she sat alone in her massive bedroom, surrounded by velvet drapes and silence. She opened her phone to send a message... but what could she say?
I didn't mean it?
Come back?
I'm sorry I called you a parasite even though you were the only real thing in my life?
The words didn't come. They never did.
So she threw the phone against the wall.
And curled up in her mother's chair, shaking.
The weeks that followed were full of numbers. Deadlines. Silence. Cold boardroom lights and colder handshakes.
But something was off.
One by one, things began to collapse. Projects halted. Clients withdrew. Trusted managers were caught in shady dealings. There were whispers—rumors of a takeover, sabotage.
She tried to control it, like she always had. Tried to shout louder, order faster, fire harder.
But the empire her parents built was rotting at the core.
And she had no one left to tell her where the cracks were forming.
Because the only person who ever tried—was gone.
One evening, as she stared at a document outlining the company's fall in cruel, black numbers, a letter was handed to her.
No name on the envelope.
Just her initials in small handwriting.
She opened it.
It was Violet's.