Chaos in Heels

Deja stood at the podium, blinking against the spotlight as a sea of expectant faces stared back at her. The speech—the one she'd planned to tank spectacularly—sat crumpled in her hands. She'd spent the last hour wandering around the gala with Ren, being introduced to business associates and industry titans who all seemed inexplicably charmed by her "refreshed" dress and unfiltered commentary.

This is it. No more Miss. Nice Deja. Time to burn this mother down.

"Good evening, everyone," Deja said, voice calm, collected, and laced with danger. "I'm Deja Monrue. I'm the head of Watchout Logistics. Or, as I like to call it, 'the company y'all didn't think I could run without burning it down, yet here we are... thriving.'"

A few nervous chuckles scattered through the room. Deja raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, don't be shy now. Y'all weren't quiet when you were whispering about me behind your little shrimp cocktail platters."

Now they were really quiet. From her peripheral vision, she could see her parents leaning forward anxiously, Trevor with his face already half-buried in his hands, and Ren—damn him—looking completely confident in her.

"First, I'd like to thank the Harrington family for hosting tonight, though I'm not entirely sure why we still call it the 'Harrington Gala' when clearly the Moreaus and Zuos run this show." She paused for dramatic effect. "That's like McDonald's hosting a PETA convention."

A ripple of surprised laughter moved through the crowd.

No! They're supposed to be offended!

Deja smirked. "Now, technically, I'm supposed to be up here reading a very corporate, very polished speech about the merger and our exciting future. You know the type. Lots of buzzwords like 'synergy' and 'innovation' and 'cross-platform scalability'—whatever that means. But I'm not gonna do that."

She ripped the speech in half. Dominique's face darkened in the front row, while Lily and Ming were openly giggling now.

"Instead, I'm just gonna talk. Like a regular person. Because that's what got us here in the first place. Watchout Logistics started with me thinking: 'Why the hell does it take six days to get my lashes from Atlanta when I live forty minutes away?'"

Sir. Zuo was nodding, which was not the reaction she was going for at all.

"And listen," she continued, gesturing to herself, "I know I don't look like your average executive. I got this dress from the trenches of sabotage and turned it into a moment. I walked in here looking like Wakanda met up with RuPaul's Drag Race and they decided to rob a fashion museum together. And guess what? It worked."

Deja leaned in conspiratorially. "Because what this industry really needs isn't more suits who talk like robots and cry over quarterly forecasts. It needs people who know what it's like to wait for a delivery with one eyelash on and plans at 8."

Someone from the back yelled "PERIODT!"

"Exactly!" Deja snapped. "I'm not a logistics expert. I'm a Black woman with deadlines and opinions—the deadliest combo on Earth. And somehow, that turned into a seven-figure partnership."

She paused, tilting her head. "Also, fun fact? Mr. Harrington once told my dad that 'the internet's just a trend.' IN. NINETEEN. NINETY-EIGHT."

The room exploded with laughter.

Mr. Harrington raised his glass and shouted, "And I was wrong as hell!"

"Oh, we know," Deja replied, grinning. "But thanks for the snacks."