Married To An Anti-Fan

JUNIPER'S POV I sat stiffly in my usual seat in the conference room, sipping my cold coffee and watching Addison Hayes present my idea like she’d birthed it herself. I deserved a trophy for not flipping the entire table. “—and we’re calling it the Gen Z Gateway Funnel,” she said proudly, pointing to the slide deck I’d stayed up building until 2 a.m. My idea. My name. My bloodshot eyeballs are still twitching from too little sleep and too much caffeine. Addison smiled like she was introducing her firstborn to the board, while I sat there with my jaw clenched and my smile glued on like a hostage. All because I wasn’t rich. Not like Addison, whose father was some mega-client with deep pockets and deeper connections. I didn’t have a legacy or money. Just talent. And apparently, that didn’t count for much. My phone buzzed on my lap. A text from Heley: "You okay?" I met her eyes across the table and gave a tight nod. I was fine. I’d gotten used to this. This wasn’t the first time someone had taken credit for my work. Probably wouldn’t be the last. By the time I made it to the bar that night, my jaw ached from all the fake smiling and my soul felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. Heley slid me a margarita before I even sat down. “She did it again,” I muttered, taking a long sip. “I should sue her for intellectual property theft. Or arson. Whichever’s faster.” “You need to quit before your face freezes like that,” Heley said, pointing to my strained smile. “What happened to that dream of being a writer? You used to scribble poems on napkins and short stories on receipts. Like your fingers were on fire.” I sighed. “Now I write emails and pitch decks that get stolen by girls with trust funds.” My phone buzzed again—a news alert. Of course it was him. Lance Sterling. Billionaire heir. Professional shirtless yacht accessory. The internet’s favorite nepo-bro. This time, he was in Capri, flexing on a yacht with a model draped across his chest like a throw blanket. “I hate that man,” I muttered, scrolling through his smug, chiseled face. “Did he personally wrong you,” Heley asked, “or is this just a class war thing?” “Both.” Fueled by tequila and spite, I opened Twitter and tapped out a tweet without even thinking: "Lance Sterling is proof you can be talentless, tone-deaf, and toxically privileged and still trend #1 worldwide. All it takes is a billionaire daddy and a negative IQ." A hit of truth. A touch of venom. A masterpiece. Heley’s phone buzzed. She looked down, her brows shooting up. “Uh, Juniper? You really tweeted that?” “Relax,” I said. “I have, like, 20 followers. You’re the only one who ever likes my tweets.” We drank. We laughed. We split mozzarella sticks like survivors of late-stage capitalism. By the time I faceplanted into bed, I’d completely forgotten about the tweet. The next morning, my phone was having a full-blown seizure. 25,000 likes. 11,000 retweets. Mentions. DMs. t****k duets. News headlines. #SterlingSpoiled was trending. I sat up, heart pounding. “Oh no.” Right on cue, Heley called me. I picked up, and she screamed through the phone. “You broke the internet! Juniper, you actually did it!” “I think I might throw up,” I said. By noon, I had interview requests from places like Gossip Bucket and Clout Daily. People were calling me brave. Unhinged. Hot. A menace. My follower count had exploded. In the same hour, I had to mute both “marry me Juniper” and “hater skank.” At three, Diane—my very stressed, very corporate supervisor—called me into her office. Addison was leaning on a filing cabinet outside, smirking like she’d personally sent the tweet herself. Inside, Diane looked like she’d aged five years. “Juniper,” she barked, “what the hell were you thinking? Do you realize what that tweet could do to this company?” “I tweeted it from my personal account,” I said as calmly as I could. “I didn’t say I worked here. I didn’t even hashtag anything about work. No one would know unless they—” “Well now they know,” she snapped. “And if our investors get spooked, you’re out. Do you understand me?” I nodded, already picturing myself selling feet pics on the internet. I slunk back to my desk just in time to see a new email notification flash across my screen. Subject: LEGAL NOTICE – Defamation: Lance Sterling I blinked. “What the—?” Attached was a PDF from a fancy Beverly Hills law firm with a logo that probably cost more than my apartment. The letter accused me of defamation, slander, and potential loss of earnings. There were paragraphs. Citations. Phrases like reputation damage and legal consequences. But one line chilled me straight to the bone: “Mr. Sterling is prepared to pursue full legal action unless Ms. Juniper Cole deletes all defamatory content and issues a public apology within 24 hours.” I was going to die. Or worse, be poor and famous. “Juniper!” Heley rushed over, her voice hushed and panicked. “You just got sued?” “I have $43 in my checking account,” I whispered. “And a plant that’s already half-dead. I can’t afford court fees.” Then, another ping. A new direct message on Twitter. Verified account. Lance. Freaking. Sterling. I clicked. “Cute tweet. Let’s talk. I’ll have my people reach out.” Oh God. I had officially pissed off a billionaire.