Chapter Eleven
Nicole
I smooth out the linen napkins for the fifteenth time, arranging them into perfect triangles on the cream-colored plates.
The apartment complex lounge is nothing special—just a glorified community room with a few fancy light fixtures and a view of the pool—but today, it’s my practice arena.
My chance to prove I’m not a complete social disaster before Alice Ketchling’s brunch next week.
Because if I can’t handle a few neighbors, how am I supposed to network with the queen of beauty startups?
“Okay, we’re ready.” I step back, my gaze sweeping over the entire scene in the lounge. I turn to Cocoa, who’s on the other side of the room. He’s gnawing on a long-lasting treat I gave him and doesn’t look up at my voice.
I’ll take that as a good sign.
The Korean BBQ I ordered is arranged on warming trays—the same food from the BBQ sauce disaster with Dom the other day. I wince at the memory of his ruined shirt, but push it aside.
Focus, Nicole.
I catch my reflection in the glass door leading to the patio.
My cream blouse is tucked perfectly into my black high-waisted trousers, hair smooth and styled, makeup subtle but polished.
I look like I have my life together. Like a real entrepreneur.
Like someone who hasn’t had two failed business ventures.
The sound of heels clicking against tile makes me spin around, a smile automatically spreading across my face.
“Hi! Welcome!” My voice comes out a pitch too high as three women enter the lounge.
I recognize Eva immediately—tall, impossibly fit, with a sharp bob that looks like it could cut glass. She teaches the spin class I sometimes attend on Tuesdays. The other two women are unfamiliar, but their matching athleisure outfits and identical ponytails scream Eva’s entourage.
“Nicole, darling.” Eva air-kisses my cheek. “Your email sounded desperate, so we thought we’d stop by.”
I wince at ‘desperate’ but keep smiling. “Thanks for coming! I really appreciate it. I’ve got this big networking event next week with Alice Ketchling, and I’m trying to practice my—”
“Alice Ketchling?” one of Eva’s friends cuts in, her eyebrows shooting up. “The dry shampoo mogul? How did you get an invite to that?”
My smile falters for a half second, but I recover. “I’m in beauty products, too,” I say, gesturing toward the seating area. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ve ordered some amazing Korean BBQ.”
“Smells divine,” Eva says. “This is Megan and Jade, by the way. They’re launching a fitness app next month.”
The trio gravitates toward the food, picking up different items and setting them down again, inspecting every detail. One of them even snaps a couple photos. But none of them take any of it.
Cocoa chooses this moment to make his grand entrance, trotting over to investigate our guests, his tail wagging furiously.
“Oh my goodness, he’s adorable,” Jade—or maybe Megan, I’ve already lost track—coos, bending down to pet him.
“His name is Cocoa,” I say, grateful for the ice breaker. “He’s a rescue.”
“Rescue or not, he needs a proper groomer,” Eva says, eyeing him. “I know someone who does miracles with these little mixed breeds. Makes them look almost purebred.”
I force a laugh. “He’s perfect just the way he is.”
An awkward silence follows as the women exchange glances. I can feel my pulse quickening already. This is exactly what I was afraid of—the conversation stalling out before it even begins.
“So,” I say brightly, “who wants a mimosa? I’ve got fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
“I’ll pass,” Eva says. “Alcohol bloats me, and I’ve got a private client at three.”
The other two women quickly decline as well.
“Well, more for me,” I joke weakly, pouring myself a glass and taking a gulp that’s definitely larger than what’s socially acceptable. “So, tell me more about your app! That sounds fascinating.”
For the next ten minutes, Megan and Jade take turns explaining their revolutionary fitness app, which, from what I can gather, is basically just another subscription workout program with marginally better filters.
I nod enthusiastically, asking follow-up questions and making approving noises at all the right moments.
See? I can do this. I can network. I can be normal.
Eva sits back, arms crossed, watching the conversation with half-lidded eyes. When there’s finally a lull, she leans forward. “So, Nicole,” she says, her voice deceptively sweet. “I have to ask. I heard your skincare line is trending on Reddit. And not in a good way.”
My stomach drops. “Oh? I haven’t checked recently.”
“It’s quite the thread,” Eva continues, scrolling through her phone. “People are posting the most hilarious reviews. Someone said using your face cream was like—what was it again?—’rubbing rotten eggs on my face while setting my money on fire.’”
Megan and Jade giggle, exchanging knowing looks.
“The first formula had some issues,” I admit, my voice tight. “But we’ve since reformul—”
“Didn’t you also try pet products?” Jade asks suddenly, tilting her head. “Like … dog treats?”
My fingers curl around my mimosa flute. “Briefly,” I say. “It was more of a test run—small batch, mostly friends.”
“Ah. Right, I remember hearing something about that.” Eva sighs. “Maybe it’s time to accept that some people just aren’t meant to be entrepreneurs.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I blink rapidly, willing myself not to cry in front of these women.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like you need the money,” Megan says. “Your dad’s Nikko Farrarah, right? The tech guy?”
“Yes, but I want to succeed on my own,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to just be my father’s daughter.”
Eva shrugs. “Some people are meant to create empires, and others are meant to … well, enjoy them.”
Cocoa, sensing my distress, jumps onto my lap, and I’m grateful for the excuse to bury my hands in his fur, hiding how badly they’re shaking.
The three women exchange glances, and then Eva checks her Apple Watch with an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my, is that the time? I really need to head out for that client.” Eva stands, smoothing down her leggings. “This was lovely, though.”
“Yes, so nice,” Jade echoes, already reaching for her purse. “The food looked amazing.”
“Thanks for having us,” Megan adds, not quite meeting my eyes. “Good luck with that Alice Ketchling thing.”
Yeah, there’s no way I’m going to that…
I stand robotically, clutching Cocoa against my chest like a shield. “Thanks for coming,” I hear myself say.
As they reach the door, Eva turns back. “Just a bit of friendly advice?” she says softly. “Maybe stick to being a rich man’s daughter.”
And then they’re gone, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft click.
I stand frozen in the middle of the room, surrounded by untouched food and perfect place settings. Cocoa whines softly, licking at my chin.
My vision blurs as tears well, and I struggle to take a full breath. The silence of the room presses in on all sides, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the air conditioning.
I should clean up. I should pack away the food. I should do something other than stand here like an idiot.
But all I can hear is Eva’s voice echoing in my head.
Maybe stick to being a rich man’s daughter.
The tears spill over, sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto Cocoa’s fur.
If I can’t succeed on my own, then that’s all I am.
A placeholder. A last name.
Cocoa squirms in my arms, trying to lick the tears away, but there are too many.
“Well,” I whisper to him, my voice breaking. “That went exactly as terribly as I thought it would.”
I set him down gently and walk to the large windows overlooking the pool. Sunshine streams in, painting everything gold and perfect, mocking my misery.
For a brief moment, I wonder what would happen if I stopped trying and just accepted what everyone seems to already know—that I’m a failure. That I’ll never be anything more than Nikko Farrarah’s disappointing daughter.
The thought sits heavily on my chest.
I wait another thirty minutes of no guests, the food growing cold, and then give in.
I guess I should start cleaning up.
Methodically, I begin closing the foil down on the pans. “We have enough leftovers for the next six months,” I say to Cocoa, who just tilts his head at me.
I’m startled by a heavy knock on the doorframe of the lounge. I turn, my eyes meeting a pair of golden irises that feel like relief.
Dom stands there in basketball shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. His hair is still damp from a shower, but his skin’s got that post-practice shine, the flush of someone who worked hard and liked it.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “Guess I missed it? Practice ran a little late.”
I swallow the urge to cry. “Hey…” My voice cracks, so I clear it and try again. “Sorry, just having a day.”
He nods, eyes flickering to the untouched food behind me. “Rough meeting?” he asks quietly, setting his gym bag down by the door.
I attempt a laugh, but it comes out hollow and broken. “You could say that.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just moves to the nearest table and starts gathering plates, stacking them neatly.
“You don’t have to—” I begin.
“I know,” he interjects. “But I’m going to anyway.”
For a moment, I just watch him, this giant of a man carefully handling delicate glassware with his massive hands. There’s something profoundly touching about it, about the way he doesn’t ask questions, just rolls up his metaphorical sleeves and helps.
We work in silence for a few minutes, me collecting napkins and silverware, him handling the heavier items. Cocoa, seeming to sense a shift in the energy, hops down from his chair and trots over to Dom, nudging his leg.
“Hey, trouble,” Dom murmurs, giving Cocoa a scratch behind the ears. “Staying out of mischief today?”
The simple interaction makes my throat tighten again. It’s just so normal. Like the world hasn’t completely fallen apart around me.
“So,” Dom says finally, as we’re loading dishes into a plastic bin I brought from my apartment. “What happened?”
I focus intently on arranging forks, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing important. Just a practice run that didn’t go as planned.”
He doesn’t push, just nods and continues working. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything I’m not saying.
Finally, as we’re wiping down the last table, I crack. “They were awful.”
Dom looks up, his golden eyes meeting mine. “The people who came?”
“Three women from the building,” I explain. “They basically told me I’m a failure who should stop embarrassing myself by trying to be an entrepreneur.”
Dom’s jaw ticks. “That seems unnecessarily cruel.”
“Well, they’re not wrong,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I mean, my skincare line did smell terrible. And the dog treats did make a couple dogs sick.”
“Everyone fails,” Dom says simply.
“Not like I do,” I counter. “I’m like the Michael Jordan of failing at business.”
“Michael Jordan got cut from his high school basketball team,” Dom points out.
I roll my eyes. “That’s such a cliché example.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.” He shrugs. “Look, I don’t know much about business, but I do know that people who mock others for trying are usually the ones too scared to try anything themselves.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. “How did you get so wise?”
“Texas wisdom,” he drawls, exaggerating his accent. “Comes free with the cowboy boots.”
I actually laugh—a real laugh, not the hollow sound from earlier. “Why do I get the feeling that you’ve never worn cowboy boots in your life.”
“Shows what you know,” he counters, wiping down the table with smooth, practiced motions. “I used to have a pair with little basketballs embroidered on them when I was eight.”
The mental image of a miniature Dominic in basketball cowboy boots is almost too much. “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence.”
He nods. “My brother has them under lock and key for blackmail purposes.”
We fall into a comfortable silence again as we finish the cleaning. The lounge looks almost back to normal now, with no evidence of my humiliating failure. I’m just reaching for the last plate when Dom’s hand brushes against mine, his calloused fingers grazing my knuckles.
A jolt of something electric shoots up my arm, and I jerk back instinctively, nearly dropping the plate.
“Sorry,” Dom mutters, looking equally startled.
“No, it’s—it’s fine,” I stammer, suddenly hyperaware of how close we’re standing.
He takes the plate carefully, his eyes not leaving mine. “Those women were wrong, you know.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “About what?”
“About you not being cut out for business,” he clarifies, setting the plate in the bin.
“You don’t even know me,” I say softly. “Not really.”
Dom shrugs, those massive shoulders lifting and falling. “I know enough. I know you’re persistent. I know you don’t give up easily. And I know,” he adds, a hint of teasing in his voice, “that you have great taste in pizza, and you’re weirdly good at baking cookies.”
Despite everything I feel, a smile tugs at my lips. “The bar is literally on the floor if that’s what impresses you.”
“I’m a simple man.” He smirks. “But seriously, Nicole. Don’t let those women get to you. They’re just … noise.”
He says it with such conviction that for a moment, I believe him.
Maybe I’m not the failure everyone thinks I am.
Maybe I can find something else that fits…