No Room For Mistakes

The sunlight that bled into the Laurent penthouse kitchen was annoyingly perfect, golden and sharp, cutting across the marble countertops and bouncing off the brass finishes. Kieran sat at the kitchen island, feeling like he’d woken up in someone else’s body again — not in the metaphorical sense, but in the literal, uncomfortable, bra-strapped sense.

He’d dressed carefully that morning. Casual, but not too casual. A fitted cream knit sweater tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans — light wash, slightly flared. Simple gold hoops, minimal makeup, and clean hair swept into a low ponytail. Nothing over the top. Nothing they could nitpick.

And yes, the bra. A real one today — well, not real, but not adhesive either. It was a lightly padded everyday bra Celeste had put in his rotation earlier in the week, with proper straps and non-adhesive inserts sitting in each cup, creating just enough shape to make the outfit work. Kieran had made damn sure to put it on right. Straps adjusted. Cups sitting properly. No need to give them extra ammunition this morning.

Didn’t matter.

Vivienne and Celeste stood across from him, arms crossed in perfect unison like statues carved from marble and judgement. They had barely said anything when he walked in, and now that the silence had stretched just long enough to be unnerving, his mother finally spoke.

“I’m disappointed.”

She didn’t yell. She never had to.

“You completely disregarded what we discussed,” she continued, her voice cool. “You wandered off. You got drunk. You flirted with a girl.”

Kieran blinked. “Okay, first of all—”

“You didn't entertain Lucian Devereaux,” Celeste cut in. “One of the company’s most valuable assets. Do you know how many board members were watching that interaction?”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Kieran rubbed his face. “I made conversation. I smiled. I said all the right things. What, was I supposed to bat my eyelashes and swoon?”

Vivienne gave him a sharp look. “You were supposed to represent this family—and this brand—with tact, polish, and awareness. Not chase after the first pretty thing that smiled at you.”

Kieran’s lips parted. He laughed. It was bitter. “Sorry, I didn’t realize being CEO of Euphorica came with a sexuality clause.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “You’re not Kiara when you say things like that.”

“Good!” he snapped. “Because Kiara is a persona, not a person. I’m the one in these heels, wearing this bra, sitting here listening to the two of you rip into me like I committed some kind of high crime just because I like girls.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Vivienne said flatly.

“Oh, isn’t it?” Kieran leaned forward. “Because I’m pretty sure what you wanted last night was Kiara Laurent, elegant future CEO, brushing off the guy with influence and drooling over the guy with charm.”

“We needed you to be believable,” Vivienne snapped.

“I was believable!”

“Not to the people who matter.”

Kieran stood. Too fast. The stool scraped the tile behind him.

He planted his hands on the counter. “Why does it matter if Kiara likes girls? Why does it matter if the CEO of Euphorica is a lesbian? It’s 2025. Isn’t the whole brand supposed to be about power and confidence and being who you are?”

Celeste hesitated. Just for a second. Vivienne didn’t.

“That kind of political attention is not what the company needs right now,” she said sharply. “Not with the restructuring. Not with the board so recently aligned. You think that kind of personal statement wouldn’t become a headline? That it wouldn’t snowball? That people wouldn’t dig for dirt on your past and find Kieran lurking in the corners of your Instagram tags?”

Kieran opened his mouth, about to spit back something scathing. Something loud.

Vivienne raised a finger. “Don’t.”

He closed his mouth. Bit the inside of his cheek.

“Your job,” she said, her voice steel, “is to _sell _Kiara Laurent. Completely. Flawlessly. You’re not being asked to sacrifice your soul. You’re being asked to do your part—for the family. For the brand. For the legacy your father built and that I have kept alive.”

“You mean lied to protect,” Kieran muttered.

Celeste shot him a warning look, but Vivienne didn’t even flinch.

“You want to throw that word around? Fine. Lie a little longer. Because we’re not finished.”

She turned to Celeste then, calmly, as if nothing had just happened. As if she hadn’t just turned her only son into a puppet and told him not to fall in love with the wrong gender.

“It’s as I feared,” she said. “He’s slipping.”

Celeste nodded once, like the conclusion had been inevitable.

“We’ll use this week to reinforce everything,” Vivienne said. “Every detail. Every skill. You’ll handle it—same as last week. I’ll be at the office, smoothing over this transition and prepping the company. But by the end of this, Kiara needs to be seamless. _She _needs to be automatic.”

Kieran sank slowly back into his seat. The weight of it all — the dress-up game turned full-time role — pressed down on his chest.

Vivienne walked away. He didn’t watch her go this time.

Celeste stayed behind, quietly walking to the fridge, grabbing a green smoothie, and sliding it across the counter to him. Her face was softer now. But not gentle. Not forgiving.

“You were lucky last night,” she said quietly. “Next time? They won’t be distracted by champagne and dresses. They’ll be watching.”

Kieran didn’t say anything. He just stared at the green liquid.

She walked off.

And Kieran sat there, dressed like Kiara, padded like Kiara, breathing like Kiara—but wondering how much of himself would be left by the end of the week.

“Alright,” she started, placing the tablet on the marble with a sharp tap. “Here’s what this week looks like.”

Kieran didn’t respond. He just stared at her. Already bracing.

“Vocal training every morning,” she said, flipping the screen toward him. “We’ve upgraded the AI module. It’s custom-tailored now, based on your actual speech patterns, inflection, even the subconscious filler sounds you use. The goal is to make your voice second nature — not just passable, but polished.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

She didn’t even acknowledge the question.

“Afternoons are split. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday — fashion seminars. With me. And no, it’s not just about looking pretty in heels. You’ll be learning how to build a look, how to shop like a woman in your tax bracket, how to dress strategically depending on who’s in the room.”

She flipped to the next slide.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays — makeup refinement. Audra’s coming back, and she’s not going easy on you this time. Full-day sessions. Everything from minimalist corporate to high glam red carpet. You’ll practice, demo, reapply, critique, and repeat. We’re aiming for instinctive muscle memory, Kieran. You should be able to do a full face in a car, under pressure, with no mirror.”

Kieran exhaled hard through his nose. “That’s psychotic.”

Celeste looked at him coolly. “And finally—”

“Oh, there’s more?” he said, loud.

She ignored that too. “—you’ll have evening etiquette refreshers. Vivienne wants you to be able to walk into any event, any dinner, any negotiation, and hold court. That means hosting skills, body language, conversational strategy. We’re also covering romantic poise.”

He blinked. “Romantic what?”

“You need to be able to accept compliments, respond to flirtation, and manage interest from both men and women without flinching,” she said crisply. “You need to appear desirable without looking available. Play the game.”

“No. Nope. I’m out.” He shoved back from the counter, rising from the stool, the hem of his sweater brushing just past his hips. “This is insane. You want me to walk around like some — some elegant android. Flirting and smiling and speaking in some stupid manufactured tone that’s not even mine—”

“Sit. Down,” Celeste snapped.

Kieran froze. Jaw tight. His fingers curled into his palms.

“I said sit,” she repeated.

He dropped into the stool like a stone, his knee jerking the edge of the island.

“And stop acting like a child,” she added.

That broke it.

“I am a child!” Kieran shouted, throwing his hands up. “At least compared to all the boardroom sociopaths you’re trying to make me impress! Do you even hear yourselves? Do you have any idea how messed up this whole thing is?”

“We’re trying to protect you,” Celeste said through her teeth.

“No,” he hissed. “You’re trying to control me.”

“Enough!” Vivienne’s voice rang out like a shot.

“Kiara,” she said, pointed and calm. “Apologize to your sister.”

Kieran didn’t move.

“Now.”

He took a slow breath. Re-centered.

Then — the switch.

He lifted his chin, softened his expression, and curled his lips into that too-perfect smile.

“I’m so sorry, Celeste,” he said sweetly, voice honeyed with that carefully trained lilt. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice or act disrespectful. I’m just… overwhelmed, that’s all. I know how hard you’ve been working. I really do appreciate it.”

Celeste’s brow twitched.

Vivienne stepped forward.

“Good. Now tell her how grateful you are to have her guiding you. Tell her how excited you are for this week of training.”

The muscle in Kieran’s jaw twitched. His stomach coiled like wire.

But Kiara tilted her head, lashes fluttering just slightly, and let the words fall in the soft, melodic tone they’d been drilling for the last seven days.

“Celeste… I really mean it. I feel so lucky to have you leading me through all this. No one knows this world better than you. And this week?” He smiled wider, eyes bright with feigned enthusiasm. “I can’t wait. I’m genuinely excited. Everything you have planned sounds so helpful.”

Vivienne watched him carefully, chin tilted like a queen on her throne. She wasn’t smiling — just measuring.

“And what are you looking forward to most?” she asked.

Kieran nearly bit his own tongue in half.

But Kiara didn’t miss a beat. She folded her hands, crossed one ankle over the other like a good girl, and said softly:

“I think the vocal work, honestly. It’s challenging, but I know it’ll make the biggest difference in how I carry myself. And… well, I know my voice is still a little rough sometimes. I want it to feel more natural. For you. For everyone.”

There was a long, cold pause.

Vivienne nodded once. “Then let’s make it a perfect week.”

She turned and left again.

Celeste gave him one last long look — something between **** approval and distant worry — before collecting her tablet and following her out.

Kieran was left alone in the kitchen, fists clenched on his lap, heart hammering behind a perfectly postured frame.

He looked down at the mug of tea. Still untouched.

And finally, finally, allowed his face to twist into something ugly and real.