Camille Hart
People think they know me.
They don't.
I'm the CEO of Hart Industries — a multi-million dollar empire my family built, but that I've taken over with an iron fist. The boardroom is my battlefield, and I win every time.
I don't do small talk. I don't do niceties. I don't do second chances.
They call me arrogant. Intimidating. Cold. Maybe I am all those things.
But that's just because I've had to be.
I wear power like armor. Sharp suits, sharper words, and a reputation that keeps people at arm's length. I don't have time for nonsense — or for people who can't keep up.
Yes, I'm rich. Yes, I'm ruthless. But beneath the polished veneer and designer heels is someone who fights every day to be exactly who she wants to be.
And that includes being unapologetically gay in a world that still tries to tell me I should hide it.
I don't hide. I don't soften.
I'm Camille Hart.
And this is my world.
—
Mornings don't come easy when you run a business empire. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that showing up — no matter how early, no matter how tired — is non-negotiable.
I wake up in my penthouse apartment before the city even stirs. The skyline stretches wide through floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass cold against my fingertips as I pull back the curtains. The hum of traffic far below reminds me that the world keeps moving, with or without me.
My phone buzzes almost immediately—my assistant, Jenna. Reliable, efficient, and annoyingly cheerful.
"Good morning, Ms. Hart," Jenna's voice chirps through the speaker as I scroll through emails on my bedside table.
"Morning, Jenna," I say, voice still thick with sleep.
"We have a board meeting at 9 a.m., a client lunch at noon, and Mr. Lawson called—he wants those financials on his desk by 4 p.m."
"Understood. Schedule a prep session with the finance team before the board meeting."
"Already on it. Also, your sister called this morning."
I pause. Family. That word feels heavy.
"What did she say?" I ask, already knowing the answer will be some combination of 'We miss you' and 'Why don't you come home more?'
"She wants you to join the fundraiser gala next month. Says it's important for 'family image.'"
I smirk, a cold smile that never reaches my eyes. "Thanks, but no."
"Alright, Ms. Hart. Coffee is ready, and the car will be here in fifteen."
I hang up and sit up, sliding my feet into sleek black heels. My reflection stares back at me — sharp jawline, intense eyes, tailored suit. The mask I wear every day.
Family dinners were never easy. Our name carries weight in the city, but behind the glossy magazine covers and charity photos lies a complicated web of expectations.
My parents built the company from scratch, rising from modest beginnings to create a legacy I'm expected to uphold. My older brother, Dean, is the golden child, charming and polished, everything I'm not supposed to be. My younger sister, Lila, tries to live in the spotlight but prefers the stage to the boardroom.
They think I'm ruthless. Maybe I am. But I'm also the only one who took the reins when it mattered.
The elevator dinged open, and I stepped into the boardroom. The polished mahogany table stretched across the room like an altar, surrounded by high-backed leather chairs where the company's power players were already seated. The air was thick with the smell of strong coffee and faint traces of expensive cologne.
Everyone looked up as I entered. Eyes briefly appraised me — some with respect, some with thinly veiled wariness. I barely acknowledged it. I was here to work.
"Good morning," I said, my voice calm but firm as I clicked my laptop open and pulled up the presentation. "Let's get started."
Mr. Simmons, the CFO, was the first to speak. His salt-and-pepper hair looked even grayer in the fluorescent lights, and he adjusted his glasses as he leaned forward.
"As you can see on slide one," he said, nodding toward the screen, "our quarterly profits increased by 3.2 percent compared to the last quarter. This growth is consistent, but below our target."
I let that hang in the air for a moment, watching the ripple of reaction. Some murmured; others scribbled notes.
"Below target," I repeated softly, tapping the desk once. "We can't afford 'consistent.' We need aggressive growth. What are the strategies in place to accelerate this?"
Mr. Simmons cleared his throat. "We are expanding into the European market. Our team has identified several promising partnerships in Germany and France."
"Promising is not enough," I said, voice sharpened. "Have we secured any contracts yet?"
He flipped a page. "Negotiations are ongoing, but nothing finalized."
I nodded slowly. "Good. Push harder. I want concrete offers on my desk by next week."
Next, the marketing director, Ms. Patel, presented the latest campaign results. Her voice was upbeat, but her eyes flickered nervously.
"The social media engagement increased by 15 percent, primarily driven by our recent influencer partnerships," she explained, pointing to colorful graphs that filled the screen.
I studied the numbers. "Engagement doesn't always translate into sales. What about conversion rates?"
"They're improving, but gradually. We're adjusting our strategy to target high-value clients more directly."
I leaned forward, locking eyes with her. "Show me those adjustments. I want a detailed report on my desk by Friday. No more gradual improvements. We need impact."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded.
The conversation continued with finance forecasts, operational challenges, and staffing updates. Each point was dissected meticulously, every recommendation met with a demand for specifics. I wasn't here to indulge vague promises or excuses.
At one point, a junior board member, Tom, tried to defend a recent hiring decision. His voice was tentative.
"We brought on three new analysts to support the European expansion. It's an investment in talent."
"Talent that produces results," I interrupted smoothly. "We'll evaluate their performance at the next review. Until then, they're on a tight leash."
The room fell silent for a moment. I could feel the tension, but I never flinched.
After two hours of discussion, numbers, and debates, we wrapped up. I closed my laptop and looked around.
"Thank you all. This meeting was productive. Let's turn these plans into action."
People began packing their things, some shooting glances at me—admiration, challenge, maybe even fear.
Jenna was waiting outside the door, a folder in hand.
"How did it go?" she asked quietly.
I gave a small, tight smile. "As expected."
Throughout the meeting, I noticed my own thoughts drifting at times — the constant pressure, the weight of legacy, the lonely silence that follows after you demand perfection from everyone else.
But there was no room for weakness here.
No room for anything but control.