It is one of those crisp California mornings; the sky is clear, and the sun is filtering through the windows of my mansion like liquid gold. The marble floors are cool underfoot, and the air carries the faint scent of citrus from the lemon trees outside.
The kitchen smells like toasted sourdough, fresh espresso, and a faint whiff of my favorite vanilla diffuser burning softly. The day has just started for people like Ethan Brooks, my stepbrother, but I am already ten steps ahead. Like always.
I always move like a schedule tattooed in my bones—quick and deliberate. My ivory silk robe is fluttering behind me as I am sitting on a stool of the kitchen island, coffee already brewed, my favorite mug warming in my hand. Boss energy is written on it.
My phone is in my other hand; I scroll through messages from clients like I am skimming a menu. I handle branding approvals, receive thank-you notes, and have a nervous intern ask if "bold orange" is too bold.
My inbox is buzzing like a hive, but I am thriving in it. I hold the title of CEO, built this company from scratch, and choose to serve as a consultant. To be honest, I excel at resolving issues that luxury brands struggle to resolve on their own.
"Do you ever stop working? Ethan's voice rings from the hall before he even steps into the kitchen.
I put my elbow on the kitchen island. "Do you ever wear a real shirt?"
Ethan strolls in wearing joggers and a wrinkled tee with a faded vintage logo. His hair sticks up as if he's lost a bet with a blow dryer. He flops into one of the stools at the island and grabs the last croissant off the platter like it owes him.
"Gotta dress for the life you want." He says around a bite.
I lean forward and raise my brow. "You are twenty-five; stop acting like nineteen or something."
Ethan grabs my coffee and takes a big gulp. "You are twenty-eight, so stop acting like you are forty-eight or something."
I roll my eyes and snatch my coffee from his hand. "So...unemployed podcast, bro?"
"People won wars with small things like podcasts."
I shake my head, but I am smiling. Ethan and I don't share a mom, but we share our father's dry wit and enormous generational wealth. Since our parents passed, mornings like this have become our rhythm, with him stealing my breakfast and me conquering the world one email at a time.
"You have got that boss look this morning." Ethan squints at me. "Like you are about to fire someone via voice memo."
"I might." I nod. "If they send me one more logo in Papyrus."
He groans. "That font should be illegal."
"Right?"
I swipe to another message and chuckle to myself.
Ethan leans forward. "What?"
"Cole." I smile. "Lunch reminder. He thinks I am gonna flake."
Are you?"
I shake my head. "Not a chance."
I read the message aloud.
Lunch today. 1 PM sharp. If you ghost me. I am gonna show up in your Zoom call with a boombox.
Ethan snorts. "Threatening and Romantic. Brave fiancé, you got."
I smirk and reply to him.
You know I'll never ghost you, love. Wear the navy blazer I like.
"Gross," Ethan mutters, standing to take a coffee.
"What?"
"You two and your cute little power-couple messages. Makes me want to throw up."
I shrug. "Why don't you get lost from here?"
Ethan walks back to the stool after taking his coffee. "Soon I'll kick you out just to get away from your lovey-dovey convo."
"You'll starve in a week without me."
He lifts his mug. "Fair point."
My phone buzzes again; another brand is in panic mode, but for now, I let them wait. I lean against the counter, still smiling, sipping coffee like the day can't touch me. Everything feels aligned: my inbox, my energy, and my life.
Ethan yawns mid-sip and blinks slowly, like his eyelids weigh bricks. "Alright," he mumbles, sliding off the stool. "I am out. Three hours of podcast edits and some guy yelling about conspiracy theories have exhausted me."
I chuckle, tapping at my phone. "I told you not to invite that guy."
"Yeah, well, he will give us views."
"Of course."
Ethan waves lazily and drags himself upstairs like a zombie heading for the afterlife. I finish my coffee and head toward my room. A quick hot shower, then I move fast; the routine is locked down like muscle memory.
Moisturizer, brows, a sweep of highlighter, and a soft rose lip. I slip into a tailored pantsuit in dusty lilac, heels in one hand and a purse slung over the other shoulder, as I step into my closet-sized elevator.
My phone lights up with a FaceTime call the moment the elevator hums downward.
Autumn.
I smile and answer. "You are calling early."
Autumn's grinning face pops up, still in bed, tangled in sheets, and of course, she is not wearing anything. I can see her framed degree behind her.
"Girl. Don't even. You won't believe the night I had."
"Oh, do tell." I tease, slipping into my heels as the elevator reaches the ground.
"I finally did it."
I blink. "Wait. Did it as in...?"
"As in...he is not my client anymore." Autumn squealing. "The case got wrapped up yesterday. Charges dropped. And five hours later...well, let's just say I got justice."
I laugh and step out of the elevator. "You did not sleep with Alexander."
"Let's just not call him Alexander." She adds. "He has the stamina of a triathlete and the abs of a Calvin Klein ad. I earned this."
I look into the mirror for a final look before heading out. "You have been waiting on that verdict for so long."
"Damn right I was," Autumn says proudly. "Client privilege? Over. Moral guilt? Nonexistent. The man was innocent. And now so am I...spiritually cleansed."
I open the main mahogany double doors of the mansion. "I am hanging up before you start describing positions."
"Too late."
"Bye, Autumn."
Autumn blows me a kiss before hanging up. Carl opens the door of my black BMW, and I climb in and toss my bag in the seat. I lean back and close my eyes when Carl starts the engine.
We are halfway to my office; my phone vibrates.
Voicemail from Dylan. I ignore it. As he is the tech guy of my company and my childhood friend.
A second buzz... Missed call: HR Department.
Instinct stirs inside me. Weird. Actually, it feels like something alarming.
And then a third, an email notification, with a bold subject like it's screaming at me.
URGENT: Financial Irregularities—Action Required
My fingers hover above the screen, my heartbeat ticking a notch faster. Carl pulls into the private parking garage beneath my firm's sleek high-rise. I grab my bag and step into the elevator.
By the time the doors slide open on my floor, my heels click over the tile a little too loudly.
Two black-suited men are standing by my glass-walled office.
They are not smiling. They are not looking friendly at all.
My phone buzzes again, but I don't look down this time.
The perfect morning?
It just ends.