From Puck Bunny To The Rival's Queen

Cordia POV:

I didn't sleep. I left the hotel as the first gray light of dawn broke over the city, driving aimlessly until I found a 24-hour diner that smelled of stale coffee and regret.

I walked toward the door, but a magazine rack caught my eye.

There they were, on the cover of the latest entertainment weekly. Donavon and Jocelynn, captured in a candid moment from last night's gala. The headline screamed: "THE ICE PRINCE'S OLD FLAME: JOCELYNN BURNS RETURNS. IS A SEVEN-YEAR ENGAGEMENT ON THIN ICE?"

My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages. More photos. The two of them laughing. Donavon leaning in close. And one shot—one that made my stomach clench—of him looking at her with a tenderness I hadn't seen in years. A look he never gave me.

I threw the magazine back onto the rack and fled.

I returned to that apartment where we lived together. Each photo on the walls symbolizes my foolish actions. I removed them one by one.

At this time,my phone buzzed. It was my best friend, Charlie Powell.

She'd sent a link to the TMZ article.

"OMG, Cordia, did you see this? Jocelynn is back! Is Donavon insane?"

The sheer number of exclamation points felt less like concern and more like giddy excitement. It was the thrill of gossip, not the comfort of a friend. A sour taste filled my mouth.

Without having to open the link, I can already imagine what kind of painful scene lies inside. It makes my heart break.

I typed back a single word.

"Seen it."

Her reply was immediate.

" So what are you going to do? You and Donavon are getting married!"

The exclamation point felt like a jab in an open wound.

I closed the chat. I couldn't deal with her. I was starting to realize that the life I thought I had was a carefully constructed illusion, and the people in it were just actors.

I had to get out. Now.

I would break the engagement. I would quit my job at the Dynamo organization—the farcical "Community Relations Consultant" role that was really just a glorified personal assistant position for him.

I started clearing my inbox, deleting years of junk mail, when a subject line caught my eye.

"An Invitation from First Principle Analytics."

First Principle. The Dynamos' biggest rival. A tech-forward analytics firm that was making waves, disrupting the old-guard thinking of teams like ours.

I opened it, my curiosity piqued. The language was polite, formal, but held an undercurrent of undeniable confidence.

【Dear Miss Maynard,

I still remember your presentation at the MIT Sloan Sports Analytics Conference three years ago. Your insights into predictive athletic performance models were the most brilliant I have ever encountered.】

My breath caught in my throat. That paper. It was the pinnacle of my academic life, and my greatest heartbreak. Donavon had called it "impractical," a waste of time. He'd convinced me to drop my PhD ambitions to become his perfect, supportive partner. His "glorified assistant," as he'd once drunkenly joked to a teammate.

The email continued.

【I believe your talent is being wasted. First Principle is looking for a General Manager, and I can think of no one better suited for the role.】

General Manager? I was the Director of Sales. Everyone, including me, had almost forgotten I was anything else.

The email concluded with a proposed salary. The number made me suck in a sharp breath. It was three times my current salary at the Dynamos, not including the equity package.

Below the number was the sender's signature.

Hart James.

Founder & CEO, First Principle Analytics.

I stared at the screen, convinced I was hallucinating. A lifeline, thrown from the one place I never would have expected, in my darkest hour.

I didn't hesitate.I immediately replied to him.

【Mr. James,

Thank you for your kind words and your generous offer. When would be a good time for us to speak further?】

The reply came back in less than a minute.

【Whenever you are available. My office, tomorrow at 10 AM?】

I typed back a single word.

【Yes.】

I closed my laptop and walked to the window. The New York morning was bright, the sunlight sharp. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I could breathe.

Donavon Bray. Jocelynn Burns. You can have your world.

My new life starts tomorrow. At 10 AM.

I turned to my closet, a new sense of purpose surging through me. I needed to look like a professional. A powerhouse. Not a woman who had just had her heart ripped out.

As I pulled out a suit, my phone buzzed again. It was a notification from Instagram. Charlie had just posted a new photo: a selfie with Jocelynn.

The caption read: "Welcome back, Queen."

I let out a short, bitter laugh and turned my phone off.

I turned on my laptop and created a new document.

Title: Resignation.

I wrote without emotion, a cold, professional summary of my three years as Director of Sales, the revenue I'd generated, the accounts I'd secured. I stated that, for personal reasons, I was resigning from all positions, effective immediately.

Seven years of devotion, reduced to a single, sterile page.

I don’t want to discuss this matter face-to-face with him at all. So I printed it, sealed it in an envelope addressed to Mr. Donavon Bray, and called a courier. I wanted it delivered directly to his office at the Dynamos' headquarters. I wanted it to be official.

Soon, the courier arrived and took away the letter.