Aria didn’t care about speaking engagements.

She cared about building things—quietly, fiercely, without applause.

But when the Global Design Futures Summit invited her to deliver the keynote, she said yes.

Not for the prestige.

Not for the press.

But because her designers—Mira included—would be in the front row.

And she wanted them to see what power looked like when it wasn’t for sale.

The program was sleek. High-profile. Curated like a couture runway for ideas.

And halfway down the list of sponsors, tucked just beneath the logo of a luxury textile firm, was a name Aria hadn’t expected:

BLACKWOOD | STRIDE
Presented by CEO: Devon Stride

Her stomach turned.

Devon Stride.

Dominic’s handpicked successor. Ruthless. Surgical. A numbers man with no interest in ethics—just efficiency.

And according to early press, he was rebranding Blackwood Capital as a design-and-data conglomerate: one that profiled creative firms by algorithm and bought out the ones most likely to outperform.

Not collaborate. Not fund.

Consume.

Aria was still staring at the name when her assistant approached backstage.

“You’re on in five.”

She nodded, slipped the headset on, and straightened her posture.

But inside?

Fire.

She wouldn’t cancel.

She wouldn’t fold.

She’d walk onstage.

And make damn sure everyone in that room—including Devon—understood exactly what she stood for.

Fifteen minutes later, she took the stage.

Spotlight on her face. Heart steady.

She spoke not like a brand—but like a warning.

“Design is not data.

Creation is not code.

People are not products.

We live in a time where creativity is being packaged, profiled, and sold—not to elevate ideas, but to strip them for parts. To convert imagination into profit margins.

I reject that.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“I’ve been bought. Sold. Burned. Rebuilt.

And I’m telling you—every young creator watching this:

You don’t need to be discovered.

You need to be protected.”

Applause erupted.

But one person didn’t clap.

Devon Stride.

He met her gaze from across the room, unreadable.

Aria didn’t look away.

Backstage, after the speech, a staffer handed her a note:

“You just made an enemy. Congratulations.” – D.S.

She smiled.

Folded the note in half.

And whispered, “I’ve had worse.”