Chapter 1:

Lace. Red. Slightly scandalous. And, thanks to a production glitch, it says “Pants on Liar” instead of Pants on Fire. Perfect. A metaphor for my entire week—close, but off just enough to get me sued, dumped, or dragged on Twitter.

I glance at Tino, who raises a single eyebrow and mouths, brand risk. He’s not wrong.

Ten minutes earlier, I was in the elevator reapplying lipstick in a compact mirror that used to belong to my grandmother. She always said red lipstick was cheaper than therapy. She wasn’t wrong. I had thirty stories to overthink my life, so I used them to rehearse my intro: “Pants on Fire is more than lingerie. It’s liberation in lace. Empowerment you can wear without apology.”

It sounded fierce in my head. Slightly unhinged out loud.

This was supposed to be a five-minute investor pitch. In, out, charm, and run. Instead, I’m standing in a glass box at the top of a downtown skyscraper, trying to explain to three venture capitalists why angry underwear is the future of female empowerment.

And now? Enter him.

Chase Donovan, suit-wrapped arrogance with a jawline that belongs in a Greek myth. He strolls in like he’s the notification that hijacks your entire screen. I know that walk. It’s the same one my ex had—confident, calculated, and backed by too many hours at Equinox and an ego fed exclusively on TED Talks and craft bourbon.

He doesn’t sit. He leans on the edge of the table like he’s doing me a favor just by existing in the same room. He smells like leather and legacy.

“Miss Quinn,” he says, his voice dipped in Wall Street sarcasm. “Are we discussing delicates, or just being one?”

Tino lets out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a snort. I stare at Chase for a beat too long. His eyes are the color of disappointment and private-school tuition.

I smile tightly. “Depends. Are you offering feedback or just flexing your jaw at me?”

One of the investors coughs. Another sips his mineral water like this is theater. Chase doesn’t flinch. He slides the defective thong toward me with one finger.

“This says Pants on Liar.”

“Good catch,” I say. “You can keep that one. It’s custom.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—respect, maybe. Or amusement. Or just the glimmer of a man who’s not used to being matched.

Because I know Chase. Not personally. But his type. I’ve known his type since the first time I sat in a boardroom and watched a man nod through my entire pitch just to ask who designed my slides. Men who think they’re the prize. Men who offer partnerships like charity. He’s my ex’s best friend. He’s every smug consultant who’s ever told me to “scale responsibly” while staring at my chest.

And now he’s holding my brand in one perfectly moisturized hand.

“I assume this is part of a... shock-based campaign?” Chase asks. His tone’s smooth. Professional. But there’s a curl at the corner of his mouth that’s anything but.

“No,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s a production error. But we’re workshopping a spinoff line: Men Who Lied to Me.”

A slow chuckle escapes from one of the investors. I don't look to see which one. I keep my eyes on Chase.

Tino jumps in, clearing his throat. “Marley’s brand isn’t just about lingerie—it’s about reclaiming the narrative. Humor. Chaos. Honesty.”

“Empowerment through elastic,” I add.

Chase folds his arms. “Do you consider misspelled underwear empowering?”

“If it makes people feel something,” I reply, “it worked. Even if that something is secondhand embarrassment.”

For a second, no one speaks. Then Chase—finally—sits. That smug expression softens, just a hair. Just enough to make me wish I hadn’t noticed.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s hear the pitch.”

I straighten my spine. This was never going to be easy. But if I’m going down, I’m doing it with lipstick, lace, and my best poker face.

Because this isn’t just about the money. It’s about proving that a woman can build something lasting—something intimate and unapologetic—and not have to compromise every damn piece of herself to make it fit into someone else’s version of success.

Chase steeples his fingers. “Convince me.”

I open the portfolio in front of me and slide out a line sheet. “This is the ‘Hot Mess’ collection. Designed for women who’ve been ghosted, gaslit, or grossly underestimated.”

Tino beams like a proud stage mom. “Target demo is post-breakup, pre-glow-up.”

Chase lifts a brow. “So... revenge lingerie?”

“Therapeutic lingerie,” I correct. “These are for the women who cried for seven minutes, wiped their face, and ordered vodka. With fries.”

An investor chuckles again. The silent one. I might be winning him over.

Chase flips the page. “And this one? ‘No Contact Knickers’?”

“They come with a matching eye mask and a Spotify playlist.”

Tino adds, “And a silk pouch for any dick-pic deletions.”

I cut him a glance. “That feature’s in beta.”

Chase’s lips twitch, but he schools it into a smirk. “Bold. Not sure the average investor loves... attitude.”

“They don’t have to love it. Just respect it.” I look him square in the eye. “Like me.”

The room stills. For one full second, it’s not tension—it’s a mutual scan. Like two smartasses syncing operating systems, trying to decide if they’ll duel or download.

Then Chase leans back, slow and deliberate. “Alright, Miss Quinn. Let’s see how much bite is behind that lace.”

He lingers a beat too long. My pulse, traitorous, flickers at the base of my throat. I remember—vividly—why I swore off this entire breed of man: too polished, too confident, too quick with the compliments that sound like critiques. But somehow, with Chase, it doesn’t land the same. It sparks. Like someone just dropped a trending sound in a silent room.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not just pitching to a room. I’m sparring with someone who might actually be smart enough to see the main character energy—and stupid enough to touch it.

And Tino? God. You wouldn’t know it to look at him now in his Ferragamo loafers and lemon-zest confidence, but we met in the clearance bin at a sample sale in Koreatown—both reaching for the same vintage corset. He looked at me, deadpan, and said, “Winner gets it. Loser gets lifelong friendship.” We both yanked it. It tore. So naturally, we shared it, started a brunch ritual, and now he’s the brand’s director of vibe. And possibly my emotional next of kin.

I glance at him again now, sitting beside me, half-terrified, half-thrilled. We built this thing on audacity and aftershocks—and here we are, pitching it to men who wear Patagonia vests unironically.

So yeah. Let’s see how much bite is behind that lace.

Let’s make them remember the day they met Marley Quinn.

Chapter 2:

Emotional Support Smoothie

I walk into Harper’s apartment, and the scent hits me like a curated Instagram reel: eucalyptus oil, oat milk, and self-actualization. Her place is what would happen if Pinterest and a therapist had a baby. There’s a Himalayan salt lamp glowing softly beside a hand-painted mug that reads: *I meditate, but I still judge you.

Harper’s seated cross-legged on the floor, precisely positioned between two houseplants named after Supreme Court justices. RBG is thriving. Ketanji is a little crispy but holding on. Harper herself is in her standard uniform: oversized linen button-down, bike shorts, and an aura of unattainable calm.

She looks up from her crystal grid with a knowing smile. “How’d the pitch go?”

I collapse onto the couch, dramatically. “You ever seen a TED Talk where the speaker gets heckled by a Greek statue?”

Harper raises a brow. “Let me guess. Chase Donovan?”

I groan. “He has the audacity of a hedge fund and the smirk of a man who names his boats after his exes.”

She sips her green smoothie and hums. “So, standard man in finance behavior.”

“It wasn’t just him,” I say. “It was the whole room. Like I’d walked in and farted empowerment.”

Harper sets down her smoothie. “Did you wear the red lace?”

I nod. “With matching lipstick. And matching regret.”

“Good. You were unforgettable. That’s the goal.”

I let my head fall back against the cushion. “He pushed. He challenged every word. And I think—God help me—I liked it.”

She leans in, suddenly serious. “Do not. I repeat, do not make this your new genre: Financial Enemy-to-Lover.”

“Too late. The algorithm already logged it.”

Harper chuckles, then studies me. “You want a smoothie?”

“Only if it comes with emotional closure.”

“Blue spirulina and forgiveness it is.”

As she blends, I find myself staring at the bookshelf. One of the spines sticks out: How to Be a Boss Without Becoming Your Father. I remember the first time I saw it—six years ago, during the worst week of my life.

Back then, I had just been dumped via post-it. That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was I’d moved across the country for him, got a job I hated, and gave up the lease on a rent-controlled miracle. I ended up in a yoga class in Silver Lake, sweating through my grief and my synthetic Target leggings.

Harper had been two mats over. Gorgeous. Calm. Disgustingly composed. I hated her on sight. Then halfway through a downward dog, I collapsed, cried, and muttered something about capitalism and closure. Harper didn’t flinch. She offered me water, judgment, and a ride home. In that order.

“You need carbs,” she’d said. “And therapy. And a better sports bra.”

We got smoothies. Then friendship. Then joint custody of a starter crystal. She’s been my emotional support millennial ever since.

Now, she hands me a tall glass of something blue and holy. I take a sip. It tastes like remorse and mint.

“Okay,” I say. “Be honest. Did I screw it up?”

Harper sits beside me. “No. You provoked curiosity. That’s more valuable than approval.”

“I might have told him the defective thong was custom-made.”

She shrugs. “On brand.”

“And maybe I said he was flexing his jaw at me.”

Harper laughs, covering her mouth. “Okay, that’s iconic.”

“And he said, ‘Let’s see how much bite is behind that lace.’”

She goes still. “Girl. That is either the start of a marketing campaign or a lawsuit.”

We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our respective coping mechanisms. Then Harper leans her head on my shoulder.

“You built something bold,” she says. “Something that doesn’t ask permission. So of course it threatens men who are used to giving it.”

I blink. “That’s... actually helpful.”

“I’m not just vibes and vitamin D.”

I smile. “You’re my emotional support smoothie.”

“Trademark it before Goop does.”

My phone buzzes. It’s Tino. I answer.

“Tell me you didn’t flash your thong at a billionaire,” he says by way of hello.

“Define flash.”

“I’ve already got six tweets and one TikTok trying to guess the investor. Chase is trending on a subreddit called ‘Hot Men, Cold Hearts.’”

Harper raises her glass. “To being famous for the wrong reasons.”

I clink it. “The only kind of famous I know how to be.”

And in that moment, between the plants, the smoothies, and the women who catch you when you fall face-first into the yoga mat of life—I feel it.

I’m not alone in this. I’ve got my crew.

And we’re just getting started.

Chapter 3:

The Ex-Factor

The last person I expect to see on my screen is Julian. And yet, there he is, frozen mid-blink on a Zoom thumbnail, like a man caught between two lies.

“Why is my ex joining our call?” I whisper-shout to Tino, who’s already mouthing I’m so sorry and hiding behind his coffee.

“I thought you knew,” he stage-whispers back. “He’s consulting now. Chase brought him in.”

Julian finally unfreezes, blinking at the camera like it owes him money. “Marley,” he says, smoothing his already smooth hair. “Looking... edgy.”

I smile like I didn’t once Google if vengeful thoughts count as cardio. “Julian. You look exactly like your apology texts: long, insincere, and in a weird font.”

Tino inhales his coffee and starts coughing.

Julian’s face doesn’t even twitch. “Let’s stay professional.”

“I’m built by women, for women,” I say sweetly. “Staying professional around you is already a feminist act.”

Chase appears on screen, perfectly lit and framed, because of course he is. “Glad everyone’s here. Let’s talk about expansion strategy.”

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s expand the part where I didn’t sign up to work with my ex.”

Tino clears his throat. “Chase thought Julian’s analytics background could help us target more investors. Objectively speaking.”

“I’ve never known Julian to be objective about anything that isn’t his own reflection.”

“Marley,” Julian says, in that voice that used to convince me to cancel plans, change outfits, and lower my standards. “I’m not here to rehash anything. Let’s focus on the product.”

Right. The product. Lace armor for women who’ve survived men like him.

Chase shifts slightly in his frame. “Julian’s here for one week. He reports to you. Nothing moves without your signoff.”

“Great,” I say, plastering on a smile. “Just like old times. Except this time, I’m the boss.”

The call ends. I slam my laptop shut.

Tino is still holding his coffee like it’s a bomb. “You okay?”

“No,” I say. “But I’m powerful. So I’ll channel it.”

And channel it I do.

Cut to: me, in the studio, pinning concepts to the wall with the fury of a woman who just remembered the taste of her own freedom. Harper arrives with a bag of turmeric lattes and a look that says she’s ready to talk or fight—whichever I need.

“I heard Julian’s name. Do I need to sage the Wi-Fi?”

“Maybe just hex the Google Drive,” I mutter.

She sets down the drinks. “Want to process, or design through it?”

“Design. Always design.”

I show her the new prototypes: the "Boundary Briefs," embroidered with tiny red flags; the "Soft No Set," which comes with pre-written breakup texts tucked in the tag; and the "Closure Corset," tight but healing.

She nods. “Rage couture. I like it.”

“Also working on a pair of panties that scream internally.”

She grins. “Name them after Julian.”

Harper walks over to the prototype board and starts reorganizing it with me, pinning concepts under new themes: Survival, Revenge, Reclamation. Together we rename our vibe: Recovery Wear. Not post-trauma. Mid-glow-up.

We’re halfway through naming a matching bralette “Not Your Girl” when Tino bursts through the door with a tray of espresso shots and intel.

“He’s already rewritten your investor deck,” Tino says, breathless. “Julian. Like you don’t know your own brand voice.”

I blink. “What did he change?”

“He added a section about making the line more ‘palatable.’ Less punchy. Less provocative.”

Harper mutters, “Translation: make it safer for men.”

Tino nods. “He replaced the tagline ‘For women who are done apologizing’ with ‘For confident women, gently.’”

I stare at him. “Gently?”

“I almost slapped my own laptop.”

The temperature in the room drops by ten degrees. And I know—right then—what I have to do.

“We redesign the campaign,” I say. “Tonight.”

Harper tilts her head. “As in...?”

“As in full rebrand. Flip the script. If Julian wants palatable, we’re going full uncensored.”

Tino fist-pumps. “Let’s make him wish he’d consulted for Crocs.”

We stay up past midnight.

Harper builds mood boards with affirmations that read like warnings. Tino remixes ad copy into savage slogans: Apologize never. Undress louder. We mock up a billboard that just says: *She’s not texting back. She’s building an empire.

And I? I sketch like my life depends on it.

A new design emerges: the "Comeback Collection." All black-and-cherry silk, stitched with unsaid goodbyes. Each piece includes a hidden message on the inside tag: *He was never your equal. Just your mirror.

When it’s all pinned up, I stand back and look at the board.

This isn’t just lingerie.

It’s armor. It’s truth. It’s a middle finger stitched in satin.

Tino wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I think we just built your villain era.”

“No,” I say, voice steady. “We just built my empire.”

That night, I lie in bed, phone in hand, staring at Chase’s LinkedIn profile like it’s a horoscope I don’t want to believe. The man is infuriating. And effective. And—God help me—hot.

My thumb hovers over the message button.

I don’t tap it.

Instead, I open my notes app and write a new tagline:

Built by heartbreak. Worn by legends.

Then I write another:

The lingerie line your ex warns his new girlfriend about.

And another:

We’re not healing quietly anymore.

Because this isn’t about him.

It never was.