Shane Kingston didn't break.
She ruled her world in pressed slacks and crisp shirts, boots polished like mirrors, and a jawline that made people flinch and stare in equal measure. Her power didn't come from glamor—it came from silence, precision, control. She didn't need to flash skin to own a room. She was the room.
But three days after May walked out, her world felt smaller.
She stood in her penthouse, coffee gone cold in her hand, staring out over the city like it might answer a question she hadn't let herself ask.
She hadn't slept.
Not properly.
Not since May.
The buzz of her phone broke through her thoughts. A message from her assistant:
"Town car is waiting. Event starts in 30."
She didn't reply. Just stood still for a few more seconds, jaw tight.
Then she moved.
She got dressed like she was going to war.
Charcoal slacks, sharp as a blade. A black dress shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to her forearms, collar popped with effortless edge. She skipped the tie—left the top buttons undone just enough to tease a line of skin.
No makeup.
No jewelry.
Just a black leather cuff around one wrist and her signature matte boots that clicked with quiet finality as she walked across the floor.
She didn't look in the mirror.
Didn't need to.
Shane Kingston didn't dress to impress. She dressed like armor—and tonight, she needed every layer.
The gala was a blur of polished faces and shallow praise.
People parted for her like they always did, their smiles plastic, their hands reaching, their eyes hungry. A waitress handed her a drink without a word. She took it, barely tasted it. A woman brushed past her—tall, stunning, lips red as sin.
"Shane Kingston," she purred. "You always wear black like it's custom-made for your soul."
Shane gave her the faintest smirk. "It is."
The woman leaned closer, fingers grazing the edge of Shane's belt. "You look like you need a distraction."
"I don't do distractions," Shane replied, voice cool.
"Oh?" the woman whispered. "What do you do?"
Shane's eyes cut to her like a knife. "Control."
That made the woman pause.
But before she could say more, Shane was already walking away.
Because that woman didn't smell like May.
Didn't smile like her.
Didn't set her on fire with just a look.
And suddenly, all of this—money, power, rooms full of empty hands—meant nothing.
Back in her penthouse, she peeled off the shirt, her tank top sticking slightly to her skin from the heat and the weight of everything she was trying not to feel. She left her boots by the door, tossed the belt across a chair, then stopped.
There, still draped over the armrest, was the white button-up May had worn that morning.
Shane's breath caught.
It was just a shirt.
But it held her scent.
Her ghost.
She stood over it, fists clenched at her sides, jaw tight enough to ache.
Then she picked it up, fingers twisting into the fabric like it might hold her together.
"I don't do love."
She'd told May that.
Said it like a fact.
But now—now she wasn't so sure.
She grabbed her phone. Opened May's contact.
Typed:"I don't know what the hell you did to me."
Deleted it.
Typed again:
"This city is cold without you."
Deleted that too.
Then finally—
"I miss you."
Sent.
And waited.
But May didn't reply.
The silence that followed felt louder than the city outside.
Shane laid back on the couch, May's shirt clutched in her hand, eyes closed.
And for the first time in her life, the queen of steel felt like she was made of glass.