Jenny

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be a CEO at twenty-six, here’s the truth: It’s equal parts champagne flutes and unpaid invoices.

From the outside, ELARA is the place to work. We’ve cornered the makeup market—glosses that melt on your lips, highlighters that make you look like you invented the sun, and packaging that doubles as bathroom art. Women want to work here. Women love to work here. And they love me.

I’m not saying that to be cocky. I’m saying it because when I walk through the glass doors of our downtown headquarters at 8:00 a.m., a chorus of “Morning, Jenny!” greets me like I’m a rock star stepping on stage.

I smile at Cassie from marketing—pink hair today, not blue.

She beams..

I say, juggling my oat milk latte, leather tote, and the creeping dread of our bank balance.

I head toward my office, which overlooks the skyline and—if you press your face to the far left corner—gives you a peek of the harbor. On my desk sits the prototype for my next big gamble: The Closet Box.

One curated outfit every month, shipped to your doorstep. Head-to-toe. No scrolling through fashion blogs, no guessing if your mustard sweater matches your floral skirt. We do the thinking, you just look like a walking Pinterest board. It’s bold. It’s fresh. It’s groundbreaking. And it’s bleeding me dry.

My CFO, Lila, slides in behind me, a stack of folders clutched to her chest.

I say, pulling my chair in and firing up my laptop

I click into the file she drops in front of me. My checking account balance stares back like it’s personally offended me.

I deadpan.

Her lips twitch.

The truth is, The Closet Box has legs. Influencers are DM’ing me for samples, our waitlist is growing, and women are excited. But excitement doesn’t pay manufacturers, warehouse staff, or the eight million dollars it costs to make a promotional video with models who can pout like they’re flirting with the camera.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might have answers.

she says softly. She’s not wrong. When I launched Lexington Luxe three years ago, I thought I’d get help from my family. You know, that’s what people with big, important last names are supposed to do—call in favors, cash in on old-money networks. But the Lexington name is a double-edged sword. I hate it.

Juniper Lexington. Sounds like a trust-fund brat who wears pearls to bed. I’ve been “Jenny” since I was old enough to demand people stop calling me after a shrub. The brand isn’t Lexington Luxe because I’m proud of the name—it’s because you can’t exactly launch a company called “Jenny’s Stuff” and be taken seriously. Still, my last name should have been an advantage. It wasn’t.

The first time I went to my grandfather for a loan, I was twenty-three, armed with a ten-slide pitch deck and enough optimism to power New York City. He listened, swirled his scotch, and told me he’d fund me—if I got married first. That’s right. Married. As in, find a man, tie myself to him in legal bondage, and then he’d sign the check.

It was laughable. Marriage was—and still is—an alien concept to me. My dad’s a famous singer whose list of ex-wives reads like a tabloid crossword clue. My mother collects lovers like other people collect stamps. Neither of them has ever been in the same place long enough to remember my birthday, let alone model a healthy relationship. So I told my grandfather no. Politely. Then went out and hustled an investor the old-fashioned way—by pitching so hard they couldn’t say no.

That investor is long gone. And now there’s no one left to call. No one except—God help me—Grandpa. Which is why his condition is back on the table. Get married, Jenny, and I’ll cut the check. I press my palms over my eyes and groan.

She snorts, shaking her head as she leaves. The office hums around me—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, my staff bouncing between desks with the kind of energy that only comes from working somewhere you actually like. That’s what I’ve built here: a company that feels like a safe place for women to be smart, loud, ambitious, and unapologetically themselves.

And if I lose it because I can’t scrape together funding for The Closet Box? I’ll never forgive myself. By noon, I’m pacing my office, latte long gone, frustration simmering in my chest. I could pitch again—God knows I could charm a room full of investors—but there’s no time. We’re burning cash faster than I can make it, and the spring launch date is already set.

I glance at my phone, my grandfather’s number sitting in my recent calls list like a taunt. Marry someone. That’s all he’s asking. I laugh under my breath

But even as I joke, my brain starts doing the thing it always does—solving problems sideways. If I can’t fall in love, I can at least pretend. A fake marriage. Paperwork, a smile for the cameras, a quiet agreement to untangle it all later. The only question is—who the hell would sign up for that?

..............

Daniel

The office was a shrine to legacy: mahogany walls polished to a mirror shine, diplomas framed in gold, and the kind of leather chairs you could almost smell—old money, old power, old ambition.

I sat behind my desk, the polished surface cluttered with legal briefs, contract drafts, and the ever-present glass of scotch—neat, because no one ever taught me how to enjoy anything diluted. Across from me, my father’s silhouette filled the room like a shadow cast long before the sun had even set. He leaned forward, eyes sharp, voice low but filled with unyielding authority.

I kept my gaze steady.

He scoffed, the sound cold and dismissive.

he glares at me

I could feel the weight of generations pressing down on me, every expectation, every silent demand that I conform to a mold I was never made for.

His eyes narrowed.

I leaned forward, my voice calm but firm.

He slammed his hand on the desk, the sound echoing through the room like a verdict.

The challenge hung in the air, thick and suffocating. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Alone. The word echoed, but it wasn’t unfamiliar

I was done living someone else’s dream. The fight was mine now.