Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Nicole
“This stuff sucks!”
“I bought this moisturizer, thinking it would work, and instead I offend everyone with the awful smell!”
“Nicole should stick to being a trust fund baby. It’s literally the only thing she’s good at.”
“Ouch,” I say aloud, scrolling through the comments beneath my newest ad for Glow Girl. “I can’t believe some of the things people say.” I turn to Cocoa, who’s sitting peacefully at my feet. I know I shouldn’t be bothered, but honestly…
It stings. Badly.
Because part of me believes them.
I press my fingertips into my temples, trying to massage away the headache that’s been building since seven a.m. It doesn’t help that I’ve been hunched over my laptop at the kitchen island for three hours and my back is screaming at me to stand up and stretch.
But I can’t stop reading.
My Glow Girl skincare line has been dying a very public, very humiliating death, and all I can do is watch the train wreck in real-time.
Another notification pings on my phone. It’s another return request. Another one-star review:
“Used this for two months. At first, it was great, then it started smelling like someone had left eggs in my car during a heatwave. Disgusting. AVOID.”
I wince, my jaw clenching so tight my molars grind.
The worst part is, I know they’re right.
The first batch of Glow Girl had a chemical reaction issue that made it develop a sulfuric smell after about sixty days.
By the time I realized what was happening, thousands of units were already on the market.
And now, even though I’ve fixed the problem with the new formula, no one’s willing to give it a second chance.
I reach for a notepad and flip it open to a page that doesn’t have anything written there yet. I scribble down my thoughts and then stare at it, as if some magical solution to all my problems will appear.
I turn to Cocoa. He’s busy chewing on his new stuffed rabbit.
“You’re not being a great assistant right now.” I laugh, brushing my hair from my face. No matter how much of a menace he can be, Cocoa is one of the best things that’s happened to me. He doesn’t care if Glow Girl succeeds or fails—he’s just happy to be here with me.
Los Angeles can be lonely.
Being my father’s failed daughter can be lonely, too.
To be fair, my big sister isn’t out trying to follow in Dad’s footsteps like I am, but at least Nora’s doing something with her life. She married one of his CEOs and is the perfectly messy soccer mom. And she’s killing it.
Nora’s always seemed to move through life without needing to justify herself.
But I wasn’t built that way.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the spot where my whiteboard used to be before I took it down.
It was filled with orders at first, then it just became full of returns and complaints.
I thought it would be motivational, but instead, it just ended up trashed with all the half-used bottles.
The irony that I have to throw away each return isn’t lost on me.
Literally tossing money into the trash.
The money my dad loaned me for the entire business startup.
My eyes drift over to the line of pink-and-gold Glow Girl jars sitting on my counter, mocking me with their perfect packaging. I spent so much money on those containers, insisting on custom designs with my signature and face embossed on each one.
How did everything go so wrong?
I did my research. I hired chemists. I tested the product on myself before launching.
But somehow, I missed the most basic quality-control issue: the formula wasn’t stable long-term.
But by the time customers started complaining about the odor, I was already knee-deep in my marketing campaign.
I’d spent thousands on influencer packages, trade show booths, and social media ads.
My face was plastered across every platform, beaming with pride over my “revolutionary” skincare line.
I close my eyes, but the memory of the smell still makes my nose wrinkle. It really was terrible—a putrid, sulfuric stench that seemed to cling to everything it touched. I spent weeks trying to wash it off my hands after testing the returned products.
My phone rings, startling me out of my spiral of self-loathing. Dad’s face lights up the screen, and I briefly consider ignoring his call, but that would only make him try again. And again. Until I answer.
I take a deep breath and swipe to answer. “Hey, Dad.”
“Nic!” His voice is warm but carries that undertone of concern he’s had ever since the first batch of returns started coming in. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?”
“I’m great,” I lie, forcing brightness into my voice. “Just been working on some marketing strategies for the new formula.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “I saw the latest sales report. And the return numbers.”
Of course he did. Dad might give me space to run my own business, but he still has access to all the financial data. Perks of being the silent investor who helped me get started.
“It’s a setback,” I admit, my forced cheerfulness faltering. “But I’m figuring it out.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice gentle in that way that means he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. “I think it might be time to consider cutting your losses.”
“Dad—”
“Just hear me out,” he continues. “The skincare market is cutthroat even for established brands. The smell issue … it’s created a reputation that’s going to be nearly impossible to overcome.”
My throat tightens. “I fixed the formula. The new batch doesn’t have that problem.”
“I know you did, and I’m proud of how quickly you adapted,” he says. “But sometimes the smartest business decision is knowing when to walk away.”
“So you’re saying I should just give up? After all the money we’ve put into this?”
“You’ve learned valuable lessons from this experience. Take those lessons and apply them to your next venture.”
“But I’ve already fixed the formula,” I argue, my voice wavering despite my attempt to sound confident. “If I could just get people to try it again—”
“Nicole.” His voice is firmer now, shifting from concerned father to business mentor. “The packaging has your face on it. Your name. This isn’t just about the product anymore—it’s about brand perception. And right now, the Glow Girl brand is associated with one thing in consumers’ minds.”
“Rotten eggs,” I murmur, closing my eyes.
“Exactly. It would take a marketing budget ten times what you’ve already spent to overcome that association. And even then, it might not work.”
Tears form behind my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. Not while I’m on the phone with Dad. Not when I’m trying so hard to prove I can do this on my own.
“I’m not ready to give up,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. “I can do this, Dad. I have to. I don’t want to be labeled a failure forever. I just need one good thing, so it proves the rest of this wasn’t a mistake.”
“Nic, persistence isn’t the same as growth. Sometimes you gotta let an idea go, even if you love it.”
I spin my pen around my thumb until it clatters to the floor and lands point-down, stabbing the carpet. “But what if this idea is all I have? What if skincare is all I’m good at?”
Dad doesn’t answer right away, and I brace myself as he finally does start to speak. “You’re good at more than you let yourself believe.” He lets that hang, then adds, “What about the other business you were tinkering with last year? The dog treats you soft launched online?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “That was a disaster,” I say quickly. “I pulled it after a few batches. It gave Cocoa a bad stomachache.”
“Oh, right,” he says gently. “Well, then maybe consider taking a—”
“No breaks,” I stop him, my anxiety welling in my chest. “I’ll figure it out.”
Dad sighs. “You’ve always been stubborn. Like me.” There’s a hint of pride in his voice that makes my chest ache. “Just … think about what I’m saying. There’s no shame in pivoting to something new.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promise, though we both know I’m already formulating ways to salvage Glow Girl.
After saying our goodbyes, I hang up, sitting for a second, phone in my lap, staring at my reflection in the blank laptop screen. My hair is falling out of its ponytail in little frizzled whorls, and I laugh.
“I’m Nikko Farrarah’s daughter,” I say, giggling as I turn to Cocoa. “Imagine if the tabloids got this view to go with my failed skincare routine.”
My dog drops his toy and comes running to me, his paws landing on my lap. I wrap my arms around his wriggling body and let my head fall back against the chair, eyes squinting at the ceiling.
“Okay, Cocoa,” I announce, giving his ears a scratch. “We’re going to fix this. You and me. First, we need a brainstorming session…” I pick up my phone from the floor, connect to my Bluetooth speaker system, and pull up Spotify.
The speakers crackle to life with a blare of synths and the rallying war-cry of a pop goddess. “THIS IS MY MOMENT, I WON’T LET IT GO…”
Cocoa perks up, tail wagging like a metronome. I leap to my feet, almost sending him flying, and sprint for the cleaning closet. I yank out my microfiber mop and twirl it, microphone-style, like I’m headlining the Grammys.
Seven years of dance lessons did not help my moves, but it still feels like a release to let it out. I strut to the center of the living room, mop over my shoulder, and hit the chorus at full blast.
My voice cracks as I belt, but it doesn’t even matter, because I took five years of voice lessons—which were also worthless, obviously.
Cocoa, clearly infected by the energy, spins in circles at my feet, barking every time I hit a new note. At one point, he actually howls in harmony.
I whip the mop in a dramatic arc and slide across the hardwood in my socks, giggling the whole time. Honestly, I have no idea what this is doing for my business, but…
It’s fun.
As I pivot, my knee clips the side table, sending my crystal diffuser flying. It thuds to the floor, but thankfully doesn’t break. The mop handle slips from my hand and ricochets off the shelving unit, where it nearly knocks off a picture.
Cocoa, thinking this is a game, leaps for the mop and misses by a mile, his tongue lolling as he knocks me into the couch. We both plop down and then lie there, a little stunned as he looks at me, his head tilted.
The song fades, and the next track starts—a ballad this time, all about rising from the ashes. As I roll to my feet, I can’t help it…
I start to laugh. It’s a deep, make-your-abs-hurt kind of laugh. Maybe even a little manic.
Maybe I’ve gone crazy.
Cocoa licks my hand. I kneel down and grab him, squeezing him so tight he gives a grunt as my giggles subside.
“You know,” I say to Cocoa, “maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I’m not a CEO. Maybe I’m just meant to dance horribly and sing terribly. I think everyone would be happier with me if I did that.”
He cocks his head and then lets out a loud bark.
I shrug and sigh, grabbing the mop from the floor. “You’re right. I’m way too stubborn to give in. Maybe a little Megan Trainor will bring out a new idea. Let’s go for another round.”
I take a deep breath, find the right song, and smash the play button.