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CHAPTER 1
I twirl my red Montblanc pen between my fingers, then scribble the date on the pad of legal paper in front of me. The twentieth of February. The day everything fell apart and fell into place. Three years, seven months ago.
Looking up from the legal pad, I squint against the harsh winter sun shining through the windows of the conference room. It’s catching Noa Ice’s crystal-covered fingernails, causing them to flash rainbows at me as she repeatedly flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. She’s leaning over the mahogany conference table, taking her time reading our terms and conditions, a teacup Yorkie tucked under her arm. Her financial counsel, Mr. Hartsher, sits to her right, murmuring answers to her questions. I’m unnerved by their delay.
Nearly four years on the job should mean I’m confident and comfortable as CEO of The Milenna Company, the world-renowned cosmetics and skincare conglomerate. I work endless hours, sleep minimally, focus all my brainpower on this job. But it’s much more than a job, it’s a legacy, a responsibility to do justice to our family name. I’m Laina Milenna, the last Milenna.
Mr. Delancey, Milenna’s CFO, my right-hand advisor, and a de facto uncle, sits to my left. He’s wearing a light gray suit that almost matches his silver hair. The rainbows from Noa’s nails are making him look like a disco ball. He leans over to whisper to me as he tucks away his reading glasses, a recent acquiescence to his age. “I looked it over as we came in, they really don’t have room to argue on this.”
“Not at all,” I murmur in agreement.
I check my watch, then the office bullpen outside the glass-walled conference room. My eye catches Dad’s stern portrait on the far wall of the floor. His Mona Lisa smile and steely-eyed gaze is so sharp, I can almost hear him saying, “Focus, Laina.” It’s a handsome painting of him, depicting him as poised, sure, and calm.
At Mom and Dad’s memorial service, Mr. Delancey gave the eulogy and I remember him saying, “Henry Milenna always had the right word at the right time, knew what to do in every situation, whose hand to shake, how to greet people in passing without being rude. He was suave and handsome and, well, just plain cool.”
If Hollywood made a biopic of Dad, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they did, I bet they’d cast someone epic like Tom Hardy as Henry Milenna. Dad is a lot to live up to, both in personality and in the running of the company.
“Ready for your vacation?” Mr. Delancey asks in a whisper. I smile and nod, feigning excitement. I’m not at all ready. So much could go wrong in just a few days, which is mostly why I haven’t deviated from a pattern of tight control since I inherited this role. Taking a break for a week is a massive leap of faith and I’m anxious it won’t be worth it.
I tuck my straight black hair behind my ear, determined to stay ahead of the worry mixed with sadness that presses on my heart. My mom’s voice in my head soothes me with the same tone she would use when she’d make me yuja tea late at night, scooping the jam-like yuja-cheong into a mug and combining it with hot water.
We love you, Laina, no matter what.
The perfect balm for my insecurity.
A yip from Noa’s Yorkie puppy startles me. Noa’s now dabbing around her damp eyes with a tissue. She’s three years older than me, a self-made millionaire thanks to social media, but an emerging disaster is making her brand an easy decision to acquire under our Beauty Done Well Initiative.
“We can’t deny it’s a generous offer, Miss Milenna,” says Mr. Hartsher, breaking the standstill with his gravelly voice.
“It’s more than generous, Mr. Hartsher,” I reply. “You must realize the value of Nice Makeup is dropping by the minute. So far, we’re tracking fifty beta testers posting to social media about how the makeup has burned their faces. This will only get worse before it gets better.”
He clears his throat and leans over to sidebar with Noa as she stares daggers at me.
I glance away through the glass wall again and notice Everett, my executive protection agent, coming out of the elevator looking devastatingly handsome as always, one hand shoved in the pocket of his wool overcoat, the other holding what I know is an iced vanilla latte. It’s winter in New York, but Everett knows I prefer my coffee cold in all seasons. He catches me watching him and swirls the coffee in my direction, earning a smile from me.
My assistant, Ainsley, greets him with a friendly, flirty, “Hey, Ev!” as he walks past her desk. Of course he doesn’t ignore her, giving her a small wave and a smile, then leaning against an empty cubicle across from the conference room to wait for me.
His dark hair is pushed back off his forehead and gelled in place, showing off his structured face and always-aware brown eyes. He’s the paragon of the chiseled bodyguard archetype from every Korean drama I used to watch, and I know I’m not the only one who thinks that.
A quick internet search for “Everett Park” reveals Pinterest boards, Reddit threads, and entire Instagram accounts dedicated to him. He’s been with me since the day my parents died, and I’ve found him to be a walking paradox. He’s all soft and thoughtful on the inside, powerful and intimidating on the outside.
I absolutely adore everything about him. But I keep that thought to myself at all times. I am his boss and we are both respectful, exemplary professionals.
“I don’t get it,” Noa cuts through my thoughts. Her dog echoes her with a bark.
“Which part, Miss Ice?” asks Mr. Delancey.
“Tell me again, Miss Laina Milenna, why you want to bail me out,” Noa says, trying to stare me down. “I don’t get what’s in this for you if my brand is such a failure.”
Heat rises in my cheeks and adrenaline jumps through me at her challenging tone.
“Your makeup is a nightmare for consumers and producers alike,” I remind her. “This company and I have a personal mission to remove anything harmful from the beauty industry, including toxic beauty standards and harmful ingredients. And your brand has both. I feel-”
“Do you even know what it takes to get where I am today? How hard I’ve worked to launch this brand?” she shouts, her chin quivering. “You were born into this family, you inherited this job from good ol’ Henry and Irene, you have had everything handed to you. You’re a cosmetics billionaire by circumstance. I clawed my way through hell for this.”
“My parents died!”
I can’t believe she would call that having everything handed to me. Noa at least has the decency to look ashamed. My brain is screaming, “How dare you say my parents’ names like that?”, but I have to stay composed. I do my best to speak in what I hope is a steady, threatening tone.
