I smoothed my cuffs. "On the day of your wedding banquet, send me an invitation. I'll use my own appointment letter—the one with my name on it—as your wedding gift."
The words landed, and Claire's lowered eyes snapped up. Guilt vanished, replaced by defensive arrogance.
"You want to take over my position?" She scoffed. "You still don't have the ability."
"Whether I do or not," I replied, meeting her gaze, "you know better than anyone."
I didn't wait for a response. I turned toward the elevator.
Behind me, her voice cracked into a hoarse, angry roar.
"Ruby Stephens, don't you dare!"
What is there that I don't dare do?
Years ago, Claire said she wanted to get married. I married her without hesitation.
I was born into an affluent family in a prosperous district. She was a scrapper—a child who'd fought with every ounce of strength to escape the deep mountains of her youth.
That year, she had no house, no car, and a dowry of barely two thousand dollars.
People joked that even my enemies felt sorry for me, watching a high-flying executive settle for so little.
But I knew the truth. When it came to ambition, Claire Vance was my equal.