Chapter 3 A Seat At Her Own Table

---

It was her sixth morning in Geneva.

The snow had softened to light sleet, falling against the café window in rhythmic patterns as Selina stirred honey into her black tea.

She hadn't slept again. Not because of pain this time - but possibility.

Her head was full. Her heart was... not healed, but humming.

The same café where she'd left her notebook was now where she returned to work each day. The barista had started remembering her order. The seat by the window was unofficially hers.

It wasn't home.

But it wasn't hell either.

And that, for now, was a kind of miracle.

---

The door chimed.

Selina glanced up-only briefly-and returned to her laptop screen.

She had just outlined a five-phase launch plan.

Target audience: women ages 28–45.

Primary angle: confidence without apology.

Her signature product: a velvet skin serum infused with botanical actives, called Phoenix No. 1.

> Rise from skin that forgot how to feel alive.

The tagline came to her like lightning.

She typed it.

Paused.

Stared.

It was good.

Too good to ignore.

Selina sat back, chest tightening.

This idea-it had teeth now.

It wanted life.

---

Her phone buzzed on the table.

Naomi.

> Just landed. Don't scream. I'm outside.

Selina blinked.

Then laughed.

The sound startled her.

She stood, gathering her coat, eyes wide with something dangerously close to joy.

Outside, through misty glass, Naomi Akintola stood under a bright yellow umbrella like she owned the damn continent. Heels, fur-lined coat, a fuchsia carry-on bag.

She didn't wave. She grinned - like a woman who knew her timing was perfect.

Selina pushed open the door, voice catching.

"You said tomorrow."

Naomi shrugged. "I lied."

---

They hugged like survivors.

Tightly. Fiercely. With all the unsaid things compressed between their ribs.

Selina inhaled the scent of Naomi's vanilla perfume and warmth.

Her eyes burned-but she didn't cry.

Naomi pulled back, cupping her cheek. "God, look at you. No makeup and still a damn sculpture."

"Liar."

"Boss. Icon. Saint of scorned women everywhere. Shall we begin?"

---

Back at the flat, they shed coats and boots.

Selina poured wine while Naomi opened her laptop and began syncing files she had already created.

> "I did a little digging," she said.

> "How little?" Selina asked, sipping.

> "Like, entire industry research reports, ten potential investors, mock branding decks, and a press release template. You're welcome."

Selina blinked.

"You've had all this ready?"

Naomi looked up. "I knew you'd get tired of bleeding eventually. I just didn't know when."

---

They spent the next four hours rebuilding Selina's dream from the ground up.

Together.

The room filled with post-its, voice notes, moodboards.

Laughs. Arguments. Brainstorms. Silence. Wine.

For the first time in years, Selina didn't feel like a wife, or an ex-wife, or a woman discarded.

She felt like a founder.

A damn good one.

---

Later that evening, as dusk swallowed Geneva in shadowed gray, Naomi looked at her and said:

> "You ready to pitch tomorrow?"

Selina froze. "Tomorrow?"

"Investor breakfast. Quiet, small, but serious players. Mostly men. Mostly Swiss. But I got you a seat."

Selina's stomach twisted.

> "Naomi..."

"Say yes."

> "I'm not ready."

"You are."

> "What if they say no?"

"Then we take that no and turn it into a louder yes. But you won't know unless you show up."

---

Selina looked at the pile of drafts and scribbled plans on the table.

Then at Naomi.

Then back at herself - her reflection faint in the window glass.

She nodded.

Slow. Certain.

> "Then let's show up."

---

The Next Morning

The conference room smelled like polished oak and old money.

Selina sat at the far end of the rectangular table, Naomi beside her, and six men across from them - all clean-cut, all stoic, all looking at her like she was either a gamble or a joke.

She wore black again.

Not to disappear.

To dominate.

Her hair was slicked back. Her lipstick neutral. Her heels high.

There was no ring on her finger.

There hadn't been for a week.

---

One of the older men leaned forward, fingers steepled.

"Why beauty?" he asked in English, accent clipped.

Selina smiled without sweetness.

> "Because I spent years trying to be what someone else wanted. Because I forgot how to feel beautiful when no one else saw me."

The room went still.

She continued:

> "I don't want to sell fantasies. I want to sell recognition. The kind that starts in the mirror and ends in power."

Naomi looked like she might weep and scream at the same time.

The youngest man at the table cleared his throat.

> "Your numbers are aggressive."

Selina leaned in. "So is my recovery."

---

One of them chuckled - the polite kind. But she saw it: a flicker of respect.

They didn't fund her that day.

But two of them asked for second meetings.

And one of them, after the others had left, slipped Naomi a card.

"I'll be watching," he said. "She's not ordinary."

---

Back at the flat that night, Naomi kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the bed.

"You were unreal."

Selina stood near the window again, wine glass in hand, still dressed like a warrior.

She didn't smile this time.

But her voice was calm.

> "Next time, they'll chase me."

---

Across Town

Adrian Voss looked at the footage again.

He had bought the recording from a discreet insider at the investor meeting - just to observe. Just to confirm.

He didn't lean on her name. Didn't interfere.

He just... watched.

Watched her hold the room.

Watched her not flinch.

Watched her rise.

"She's ready," he said softly to himself.

And this time, he wouldn't wait.

---

The next morning came with soft snowfall and the promise of something new.

Selina stood on the small terrace of the Geneva flat, wrapped in a navy robe, steaming mug cradled in both hands. Her breath fogged the glass. Her skin prickled with cold.

But inside her?

There was heat.

A slow, steady burn she hadn't felt in years.

Not anger.

Not grief.

Drive.

---

Back inside, Naomi was spread across the floor like a tactical map, surrounded by laptops, planners, color swatches, and a half-eaten croissant.

"We need an identity kit," she muttered, dragging another design into Photoshop. "Something that screams strength, not softness. Velvet over lace. We're not here to whisper."

Selina padded in barefoot, sipping her coffee. "What about charcoal and rose gold?"

Naomi blinked. "Excuse me?"

"For the brand. Not black and gold - that's too obvious. But charcoal, for grit. Rose gold for the femininity that doesn't need to be loud."

Naomi grinned.

"Look at you, CEO queen. Might cry."

Selina arched a brow. "Please don't."

---

They worked until past noon.

Selina reviewed supply chain leads. Naomi drafted a brand manifesto. By 2 p.m., they were on a video call with a Swiss botanical chemist who specialized in sustainable skincare.

Every second was proof that the dream had moved from her head to her hands.

And her hands weren't shaking anymore.

---

After the call, Naomi stood and stretched.

"I'm going out," she said, grabbing her coat. "Market run, also maybe a peek at the concept store district. I want you in one of those windows one day."

Selina nodded. "Don't get lost."

Naomi winked. "Please. I'm a black woman with a power bun and Google Maps. Geneva can't handle me."

---

Selina was left alone.

For the first time in days, she didn't mind the silence.

She returned to the terrace, this time with her tablet, and pulled up something she hadn't looked at in three years:

Her name.

A simple Google search: Selina Moreau.

It was still mostly wedding articles. Social photos from Florence events. Pieces that described her as Lucas Hart's elegant wife.

She clicked Images.

There she was.

Smiling. Quiet. Always beside someone else.

Never the subject.

Always the plus one.

Until now.

---

She closed the tab.

And typed a new one:

Investor Events: Geneva 2025.

She was building her own spotlight now.

And this time, she wasn't sharing it.

---

At a private investment luncheon across town

Lucas Hart swirled the scotch in his glass without drinking it.

He was dressed in sharp winter gray, seated at a table with two French executives, one UK-based portfolio manager, and an older Swiss industrialist.

They were discussing tech start-ups, inflation rates, and high-risk verticals.

Boredom seeped in - until one word stopped him cold.

> "Have you heard about the new beauty venture in Geneva?" one man asked casually. "A woman-led company. Quite bold branding. Moreau Beauty, I believe."

Lucas's head lifted. "Moreau?"

The name sat in the air like a match.

The French man chuckled. "Yes. Funny coincidence. The founder's name is Selina Moreau. Ex-wife of someone in your world, I think. You know how these socialites are - a scandal turns into strategy."

Lucas said nothing.

But his heart dropped into his stomach.

---

Later, in the backseat of his car, Lucas opened his phone.

Searched the name.

There she was.

No longer just his Selina - but herself.

He saw a grainy photo of her leaving the investor building. Head high. Eyes forward.

She was glowing.

He hadn't seen her glow in years.

And now it wasn't for him.

---

Meanwhile: At a private residence in Old Town Geneva

Adrian Voss stood in his library, thumb stroking the corner of a silk tie he hadn't yet put on.

A package sat on his desk.

Unmarked.

Inside it: a bottle.

Sleek. Glass. Minimalist design.

A prototype of something called Phoenix No. 1.

His assistant had acquired it from someone connected to Selina's meeting the day before.

He opened the cap.

Closed his eyes.

Inhaled.

Jasmine. Citrus. Earth.

It smelled like survival.

Like the kind of woman who had been to hell and come back beautiful.

He didn't smile.

But his voice was low.

> "We fund her. Quietly. Through third arms. No contact. Not yet."

The assistant hesitated. "Sir, she doesn't know you."

Adrian turned.

> "She doesn't have to. She just has to rise."

---

That Night

Selina was in the bath.

The room was lit only by candles, her laptop perched nearby playing a soft jazz playlist.

Steam curled around her shoulders.

She didn't cry.

She didn't think about Lucas. Or Florence. Or wedding anniversaries that never felt real.

She thought about numbers. Labels. Packaging costs.

Her bathwater smelled like eucalyptus and something almost like freedom.

She picked up her phone.

Scrolled her inbox.

A new email.

Subject: Preliminary Interest – Branding Partnership Proposal

Selina blinked.

No sender. Just a neutral legal firm name.

Inside, the terms were clear:

A potential branding alliance with an unnamed parent company willing to fully fund her first 3-month launch window - without creative interference.

All under NDA.

Selina's brows drew together.

"What the hell...?"

She called Naomi.

"You're not going to believe this."

---

Across the city, Adrian Voss's phone buzzed.

> "Proposal sent," said the voice on the line.

He said nothing.

Just turned toward the window...

...where snow fell softly against the black Geneva skyline.

---