Molly
The alarm rings in my ears and I don’t groan or fight getting out of bed.
I’m an overachiever to say the least.
Getting up early is on par with achieving success so I don’t mind one bit.
I put one foot and then the other into my new Chanel slides. Once I’m up, there’s no point in getting back under those cashmere blankets—that’s the mentality I live out each and every day.
I’m Molly Quinn, and if you know anything about me, it’s that I’m a successful woman, independent and not afraid to shine. I’m competitive and fearless, making my way to the top. I stop for no one, and I put every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears into everything I do.
There’s no point in doing anything halfway, I tell myself.
Climb higher. Reach farther. Beat them all at their own game.
It’s dark as I hit the button on my cell phone to silence the alarm. I yawn, stretch, and pad along my thick, plush rug.
I live a life of luxury and am proud of it.
I work hard every day and I play hard too.
The bathroom light comes on slowly and creates a warm glow in my bedroom. The point is to adjust my eyes to the light before walking out to the kitchen where the harsh light will assault my senses.
I get dressed in my workout gear and head to my kitchen where I start a pot of coffee that I’ll drink after I have my workout.
In my living room, the treadmill sits proudly in front of wall-to-wall panoramic window views of midtown Manhattan.
I pump the music and start to run.
And I run hard.
And I don’t stop—until I reach that five-mile mark.
I do the same thing every day, six days a week.
Because what is life when you can’t move and stretch and push your body?
I enjoy pushing myself to the max in all things.
In a word, I am unstoppable.
You probably think I’m crazy for getting up before dawn just to ‘fake’ run on the treadmill. You might ask why I don’t just jog the city streets.
Well, I feel more comfortable in my own house, collecting sweat while I do something enjoyable like listening to Rihanna’s latest album. Running on my treadmill, overlooking the breathtaking view, is how a tightly wound and success-driven woman such as me gets her relaxing time in for the day.
I am living my dream each and every moment.
I run hard, beating yesterday’s time.
I look around at my immaculate apartment. It’s chic and modern and simple—all whites and greys and blacks.
The best furniture glamorizes my place. I didn’t spare a dime because I deserve the best in all ways. White tufted couches and faux fur rugs, low-level lighting and huge pieces of abstract black and white art make the place feel one-of-a-kind.
I can’t fucking stand for anything to be out of place. Not even a speck of dust or a single crumb is allowed to live on my floor.
My maid comes in once a week and I swear I’d be lost without her.
The only things on my Cararra marble countertops are my coffee pot and $5000 espresso machine, because let’s be honest, I live for coffee—gourmet, imported from Italy.
I’m what the male species refers to as ‘beauty and brains.’ I’m the hot nerdy chick, if you want to call it that. What an oxymoron right?
But yes, that’s totally me in a nutshell.
I’m also the only daughter of business tycoon Richard Quinn, owner of Quinn Industries. What does this enterprise do, you ask?
Well, let’s just say my father runs the ‘special entertainment’ clubs of Manhattan. His company is in charge of hiring, firing, and the overall general management of the talent for the most popular strip clubs in the city.
He’s a rich bastard, but I have to fucking love him because he’s my dad.
That doesn’t mean I have to actually like him, though, right?
My dad and I have a lot of the same qualities, which might be part of the reason why we butt heads so often. I consider myself to be a strong business-minded woman, much like my father thinks of himself, only from the male perspective.
There’s just one tiny glitch in this system that keeps it from operating smoothly, and it has a name. Or should I say, he has a name.
Yep, I’m not an only child.
My older brother Harry Quinn is my biggest competition. Not the other women out there trying to make a name for themselves in the business world of New York City. Nope, it’s my very own fucking older brother.
Harry and I are opposites in every way, even when it comes to our physical features. Harry has dark red hair, almost an auburn color, and it’s wavy. I have straight-as-a-board, long blonde hair.
Harry likes to remind me that if I’d stop being such an “uptight bitch with a stick up my ass” all the time, then maybe my father would give me the time of day and take me seriously.
Yes, that is a direct quote from Harry fucking Quinn himself. I know I’m tense; it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure that out.
I’ll always be second when it comes to the beloved golden child Harry. He could half of what I do and my father would praise him for doing it best. That’s just the way the fucking cookie crumbles in the Quinn family.
Meanwhile, my fancy mother just sits in the background, filing her nails, and judging everything that moves or breathes.
We aren’t exactly the token family, and Dysfunctional should probably be our last name instead of Quinn, but take them or leave them, I know that they’re my only ticket to victory.
I jump off the treadmill, sweaty and with my heart pounding. I went extra fast today, thinking about how angry my brother and father make me.
It’s just a fucking frustrating situation to be in, especially when all I want to do in life is make a name for myself and succeed.
I head back to my gorgeous en suite and draw myself a hot bath. Yes, I’m a weirdo and prefer baths after my workouts as opposed to showers.
There’s something about lying in the water that makes my muscles relax, and I don’t feel as sore afterwards. Take notes, folks…I may be on to the top-secret workout tips of the world, you just never know.
As I lie there, submerging my tightly sculpted and tanned body in the water, I think about how hard it is to be a woman in this society.
I have to work twice as hard for the same results.
I don’t just want to break the glass ceiling, I want to fucking shatter that motherfucker. Like with a sledgehammer, while all the glass rains down on all the men who tell women they can’t amount to anything.
Okay, maybe there’s a chance that’s slightly melodramatic, but I’m just trying to explain to you how difficult it is out there and how most of the time I feel like fucking shark bait.
The double standards exist, and the competition’s all one-sided. I’m worlds smarter than my asshole brother Harry. That’s just a fact.
Growing up, who was in the gifted and talented programs at school? If you’re guessing me, then ding ding ding, you win the prize. Congratulations.
Harry never works hard unless he thinks someone’s watching him. The motivation isn’t driven by the actual desire to do an astounding job. He just wants to be lazy and get rich, living in the limelight of my father.
Yes, I’m sullen but I have a fucking right to be. I deserve as much, if not more, attention than Harry because I actually put effort into my work.
But all my trials are in vain, because in the end, Harry always gets the vote from my father. There’s got to be some secret to prove my worth to our dad, but I have yet to figure that one out.
Men can’t handle me. I already know that.
I know I’m superior, or at least the same level as them at the very least, and they don’t like it, not one fucking bit.
They can’t deal with an alpha female. Guys need to feel in control all the time, and they won’t let some successful women grab them by the balls.
As I get dressed in my sexy A-line skirt and white blouse, I think about how tired I am of trying to get approval from men. I’m my own person, and I’m not going to answer to fucking anyone.
I walk to my front door that was carved in Morocco and close it behind me, preparing for another day at the office, knowing I will achieve great things because no one can stop me.