Devil Woman

Chapter 3

Nyra

I hated France, and I think I was starting to hate traveling as well. Despite having my own jet and schedule, there was something about New York that was just home, and nothing could ever replace that homey feeling it gave me.

I'd traveled a few times over the years as I tried to expand my lingerie line. I wanted it to reach all over Europe, and along the way, Jessie thought it would be a good idea to invest in real estate as well. So, after signing contracts and meeting with clients, we'd check out a few properties that Jessie ensured would make me money, and I'd buy them.

I had revenues, and I knew the market pretty well from what Jessie taught me. Money-wise, I was doing exceedingly well, and I was more than proud of where I'd been and where I would go in my life. Yet. Yet there was this piece of me hidden deep inside that reminded me that I still hadn't done anything.

It felt like what I wanted wasn't even a drop in the bucket. All the accomplishments I'd chartered over the years felt like a disappointment. The only advice I could truly give myself was to keep pushing forward, to keep on breaking those barriers that the business world created for women.

Obstacle number two-hundred and forty-seven would be Michael Dupont. He was a rather ugly man with a pointed nose and wart that reminded me of the witches in children's fairy tales. He thought the meeting would end the way it always did between us.

Sipping tea, eating a grainy dessert, and him laughing and cocking around arrogantly in French as if I didn't understand. His wife would be the perfect adversary to work alongside.

Women always had that killer instinct, but it took a little push sometimes. Francesca, Micahel's wife, just needed that little push, and I'd given it to her prior to meeting with Michael. Men were never loyal, even if they had a wedding band on their finger, and it wasn't easy to find out that Michael Dupont had two other mistresses living in France and other kids as well.

As soon Francesca got the evidence that we had not so discretely sent her, I offered her a choice. Work with me or be against me. The choice was obvious, and she chose exactly how I thought she would. With me.

Once I dealt with Michael and had him sign over his liquid assets and power of signature to her, then my line would reach all of France, and I'd be able to move on to my next city.

"Chienne!" Michael swore, and I couldn't help but laugh.

(Translation: Bitch)

What was it about men and that word? What did it ever accomplish? Whether or not you call me a bitch doesn't matter to me. I'd been called way worse. Heartless.Whore. Slut. A cold-hearted bitch was very common in small-dick men nowadays. It wasn't anything new. I didn't have a heart, not anymore.

The day my parents died...the days my parents were murdered and buried, I buried my heart with them. I was only eleven. Eleven years fucking old and had the whole entire globe and world on her shoulders. It was heavy. It still is.

The Cartier bracelets and Beluga Caviar did nothing to lessen it. The stocked shelves of designer bags and heels used to fill my cold soul. Other times, Swarvoski crystals made me smile. But sometimes, it did nothing. I felt nothing.

Life wasn't worth it as much as it was when I was a little child. It felt like I was living, breathing, moving through these motions with a dull and empty ache in my chest.

Men never had to deal with such crude backlash in the business world. They didn't have to double down on themselves and doubt their decisions, and question every word, idea, and plan. Men had that luxury. I didn't.