The CEO's Biggest Lie

Summer's POV I woke up to the smell of something burning. For one blissful second, I lay still, convincing myself it was coming from one of the neighboring apartments. Mrs. Garcia in 3B had a habit of forgetting whatever she left on the stove. Then I heard my younger brother curse from the kitchen. "...Shoot!" My eyes flew open. "Jayden!" Throwing my blanket aside, I stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over the stack of books I'd promised myself I'd return to the library weeks ago. The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 6:07 a.m. Wonderful. I had overslept. Again. I rushed into the kitchen just in time to find Jayden waving a dish towel at a frying pan while smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. "What happened?" I snatched the pan off the stove before our breakfast officially became a fire hazard. He looked up sheepishly. "I wanted to surprise you." "By setting the apartment on fire?" "It wasn't intentional." I raised an eyebrow. "I figured." Despite myself, I laughed. Jayden grinned, knowing he'd gotten away with it. "You can stop smiling," I muttered, scraping the burnt eggs into the trash. "You're still cleaning the pan." "Worth it." "Not when you're buying breakfast." His smile disappeared instantly. "...Can we revisit that conversation?" I folded my arms. "With what money?" He sighed dramatically. "You're a terrible older sister." "I'm an excellent older sister. Terrible older sisters let their siblings eat charcoal." That earned me a laugh. The tiny kitchen, still hazy from the smoke, suddenly didn't feel quite so chaotic anymore. Mom used to say laughter made every home feel bigger. I believed her. Maybe that was why, despite the peeling paint and the ancient refrigerator that hummed louder than necessary, our little two-bedroom apartment had always felt enough. It wasn't perfect. But it was ours. Jayden reached for the bread. "I can make toast." I slapped his hand away. "You've done enough damage for one morning." "I burned one pan." "You almost burned Manhattan." "That's... slightly dramatic." "I learned from the best." His expression softened. We both knew who I meant. For a brief moment, the kitchen fell quiet. Mornings were the hardest. Not because we missed our parents any less on the other days. But because mornings were when everything reminded us of them. Mom humming while making pancakes. Dad reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee he always claimed was "too weak." Some memories became easier with time. Others stayed exactly the same. Jayden cleared his throat. "I've got an economics quiz today." The heaviness disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. "You're going to ace it." "I haven't even revised Chapter Eight." "You've revised the first seven." "Comforting." "It should be." I opened the fridge, mentally calculating what was left. Eggs. Butter. Half a carton of milk. A few vegetables. Enough ingredients to make breakfast... And enough reasons to make my grocery list even longer. Rent wasn't due for another week, thankfully. Still, every dollar had a destination before it even reached my account. Some went toward bills. Some went into savings. Every Friday, no matter how small the amount, I transferred something into a separate account labeled Restaurant Fund. Some weeks it was fifty dollars. Other weeks it was five. It didn't matter. Dreams weren't built in a day. They were built dollar by dollar. One sacrifice at a time. One exhausted morning after another. I cracked fresh eggs into a bowl. "You know," Jayden said casually, "when my business degree makes me a millionaire, I'm banning you from working two jobs." I snorted. "Oh? Is that so?" "Absolutely." "And what exactly will I be doing instead?" He didn't hesitate. "Running your restaurant." I paused. Just for a second. Then I smiled. "From your lips to God's ears.” … By the time breakfast was ready, the apartment had returned to its usual rhythm. Jayden sat at the small dining table—if you could call a round table squeezed between the kitchen and the living room a dining table—with one eye on his toast and the other on the business section of the morning news on his phone. I placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. "No charcoal this time," I said. He looked down dramatically. "I don't know... I was starting to develop a taste for burnt eggs." "You'll survive." "I suppose." I rolled my eyes before taking the seat opposite him. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clinking of forks against plates and the old ceiling fan humming above us. It was peaceful. Rare. I cherished moments like these because they didn't happen often. Between my two jobs and Jayden's classes at NYU, we were usually passing each other like strangers sharing the same apartment. "So..." I began, taking a sip of my coffee. "What time are you done today?" "Around three." "Straight home?" He avoided my eyes. I narrowed mine. "Jayden." "What?" "You looked away." "I did not." "You blinked twice and scratched your neck." "I have allergies." "You lie terribly." He sighed. "I was thinking of grabbing lunch with a few people from class." I smiled. "You don't need my permission." "I know." "Then why are you acting like you do?" He shrugged. "I just... didn't want you worrying." My smile softened. "I'll always worry." "I know." "But that doesn't mean you stop living your life." He studied me for a moment before nodding. "Okay." "Okay." A comfortable silence settled between us again. It wasn't awkward. It never was. That was the thing about Jayden. We didn't always need words. Sometimes simply existing in the same room was enough. After breakfast, he disappeared into his room to grab his backpack while I rinsed the dishes. Our apartment wasn't much. Two bedrooms. One bathroom with a shower that only produced steaming hot water or freezing cold water—never anything in between. A tiny kitchen. Secondhand furniture. Walls that desperately needed a fresh coat of paint. But every picture hanging on those walls had been put there by Mom. Every piece of furniture had been picked out by Dad. Leaving had never crossed my mind. Not because I couldn't. Because I wasn't ready. "Summer?" I looked up. Jayden was standing by the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder. "I've got to go." I dried my hands on a kitchen towel before walking over. He bent slightly, knowing exactly what was coming. I straightened the collar of his shirt. He groaned. "I'm not twelve." "I know." "You don't have to fuss." "I know." "You do this every time." "I know." He laughed, shaking his head. "I swear, when I'm thirty, you'll still be fixing my collar." "When you're thirty, I'll probably remind you to take your vitamins too." "I'll hire someone." "Oh?" "Yeah." "What if they don't love you enough to nag you?" He smiled—small, genuine. "I'll just come home." My heart squeezed. "Drive safe." "I take the subway." "Exactly." He chuckled. "I'll see you tonight." Before he could escape, I wrapped him in a quick hug. He froze for a split second before hugging me back. "Summer?" "Hm?" "I'll pay you back someday." I frowned. "For what?" "For everything." My chest tightened. I pulled away just enough to flick his forehead. "Ouch." "Your only job is to graduate." "But—" "No buts." "You work too hard." "I know." "For me." "For us." His eyes glistened for the briefest moment. Mine probably did too. So I smiled instead. "Now go before you're late." "Bossy." "Responsible." He opened the apartment door. Then looked back. "I love you." The words came so naturally between us that I almost forgot how precious they were. "I love you more." "Impossible." "Very possible." He laughed all the way into the hallway. A second later... The apartment fell quiet. Too quiet. I looked around the living room. The empty mug he'd forgotten to wash. His backpack zipper he'd left open before remembering it at the last second. The half-eaten slice of toast still sitting on his plate. Little traces of him. Little reminders that, for all his talk of paying me back someday... He had no idea. He already had. Every smile. Every hug. Every "I love you." That was enough. More than enough. I grabbed my own bag from the couch and glanced at the clock. 7:41 a.m. If I hurried, I'd make it to the library with ten minutes to spare. I slipped my earbuds into my ears as I locked the apartment. Music always made the subway ride feel shorter. As I walked toward the station, the warm July sun brushed against my skin. Another long day. Another double shift. Another step closer to my dream. I smiled to myself. "One day," I whispered. "One day.” … The subway was unusually kind to me that morning. No delays. No mysterious announcements over the speakers. No one is blasting music loud enough for the entire train to enjoy. Just a forty-minute ride filled with sleepy commuters and the familiar scent of coffee drifting through the carriage. I leaned against the pole nearest the doors, my earbuds tucked in as soft music played in the background. Most people hated the morning rush. I didn't. There was something comforting about watching New York wake up. Street vendors setting up their carts. Businessmen walking as though they were being timed. Parents trying to convince sleepy children that school wasn't optional. It reminded me that everyone was chasing something. Mine just happened to involve food. The train slowed to a stop, and I stepped onto the platform with a smile. Another day. Another opportunity. ... The small bell above the library entrance chimed as I pushed open the heavy glass door. The familiar scent of paper, coffee and polished wood wrapped around me like an old friend. Home. Well... My second home. "Morning, Sunshine." I laughed before I even looked up. Only one person called me that. "Morning, Mrs. Whitmore." The sixty-something librarian looked at me over the rim of her glasses before pretending to inspect me critically. "You're three minutes early." "I know." "It's unsettling." "I'll try harder tomorrow." "Please don't." She smiled. "We'd all have heart attacks." I hung my cardigan behind the circulation desk before tying my hair into a neater ponytail. Mrs. Whitmore had been working at the library longer than I'd been alive. She knew every regular by name. Every shelf from memory. And somehow always knew when someone needed a good book before they did. She liked to pretend she was grumpy. No one believed her. "Coffee?" she asked. "I already had one." She gasped dramatically. "Without me?" "I didn't want to wake you at six in the morning." "Selfish girl." "I've been called worse." She chuckled before handing me the returns trolley. "Busy morning." "When isn't it?"