Feel Great, Look Great

The first time I see my brand name bleeding across someone else’s video, my stomach drops before the view count loads.

It’s 7:12 a.m. in my SoHo loft studio, and the windows are still gray with rain. Two ring lights glow over my shade wall, forty-two little boxes aligned like a perfect argument. In the center, on a stainless steel cart, sit the things I’ve been working toward for two years: Feel Great, Look Great primer, blush, and a lip oil that smells like clean vanilla.

Talia is already here, perched on the couch with a coffee she isn’t drinking. She scrolls with both thumbs, jaw tight. She wears a Knicks cap low, like it can block bad news.

“Grace,” she says, not looking up. “Don’t open the comments first. Watch it.”

“I’m watching,” I say, and I’m lying. My thumb taps my cracked lavender phone case, fast, like it can wake me up.

The video is a duet. On the left is my launch clip from last night—me in a silver dress, grinning, holding up the primer like it’s a trophy. On the right is a woman in harsh bathroom light. She zooms in on a screenshot of an ingredient list, circles a chemical name, and says, “If you put this on your face, you’re asking for a rash.”

The caption reads: FEEL GREAT? TRY FEEL INFLAMED.

I keep my face neutral because that’s what I’ve trained myself to do. Neutral reads well on camera. Neutral buys time.

Talia finally looks up. “This is already everywhere. I saw it stitched by three derm accounts.”

“Three?” I ask.

“Three big ones,” she says. “They’re not saying you’re evil. They’re saying you’re careless. That’s worse.”

A notification pops up. Nina Patel: CALL ME NOW.

Before I can tap it, my door buzzer goes off. Then it goes off again, longer. Like whoever’s downstairs knows I’m the type of person who tries to buy myself thirty seconds.

Talia stands. “That’s Nina.”

“I know,” I say. I inhale once, the way I do before I hit Record. My studio smells like vanilla lip oil and yesterday’s hairspray.

Nina comes in without taking off her raincoat, as if the weather is beneath her. Her sleek bun is tight enough to hold together a crumbling building. She sets a tote bag on the table and slides her phone toward me.

On her screen is the same duet, but the numbers are different. 4.1 million views. Climbing.

“Good morning,” she says, voice calm. “We need to move.”

“We’re moving,” I say. “We can post the lab report.”

Nina blinks once, slow. “We do not post a lab report to TikTok. That’s not moving. That’s flailing.”

Talia makes a sound in the back of her throat. “It’s not flailing to show proof.”

Nina doesn’t look at her. Nina rarely looks at anyone she can’t fire. “Grace, you have a distribution meeting at ten. Midtown. Glass conference room. The people in that room do not care about proof. They care about risk.”

“Then I can tell them it’s not true,” I say.

“You can tell them,” Nina replies, “and they will ask why it’s trending. They will ask why your brand’s AR shade-match filter is glitching and making everyone’s cheeks look blotchy.”

I open our branded filter and aim it at my face. The overlay loads. For half a second, it’s perfect—my skin evened out, blush placed where I usually place it. Then the color shifts, pixelates, and blooms into a rashy red that crawls up my cheekbone.

Talia swears. “That’s what everyone’s seeing.”

“It’s a server issue,” I say, but my voice comes out thin.

Nina’s phone buzzes. She glances down and keeps talking. “This is not only about ingredients. This is about narrative. And narrative is what you sell.”

“That’s a gross way to say it,” Talia says.

“It’s an accurate way to say it,” Nina replies.

I set my phone down on the sampling cart. The metal is cold through my palm. My thumb stops tapping because there’s nothing to tap that fixes this.

Marco arrives five minutes later, breathless, wet-haired, carrying his neon-stickered folder like it’s his firstborn. He has ink smudges on his fingers from warehouse labels.

“I came as fast as I could,” he says. “I saw the videos.”

Nina points at him like he’s a presentation slide. “Tell her what’s true.”

Marco opens the folder and pulls out a sheet with batch numbers and signatures. “Our formula is compliant. The ingredient they’re circling is a preservative used in a lot of cosmetics. The percentage is within standard range.”

“Then why is this happening?” I ask.

“Because they found a scary word,” Marco says. He sounds tired, not angry. “And because your filter glitch makes it look like you’re giving people hives.”

Nina lifts a finger. “And because the internet loves a takedown.”

Marco hesitates. He flips to another page. “There is one thing.”

Talia’s eyes narrow. “Marco.”

He holds up his hands. “Not the formula. The packaging supplier had a delay for the first two production batches. We used a secondary supplier for the outer cartons. Same materials spec. Same certifications. But it’s different batch tracking.”

Nina’s calm shifts a fraction. “Why am I hearing this now?”

“I flagged it,” Marco says. “I emailed. It didn’t seem like… this.” He gestures at Nina’s phone, at the swelling numbers, at the rain on the windows.

“Different batch tracking means what,” I ask, “in English?”

Marco meets my eyes. “It means if someone claims a reaction, we need batch number receipts to trace it. We have those. It’s just slower for those first shipments.”

Slower. That word lands hard. Slower means screenshots, threads, compilations. Slower means a rumor can harden into truth.

Nina’s assistant texts again. Nina reads and her mouth tightens. “Allure’s beauty editor is downstairs. Someone told her we’d give an exclusive.”

“I didn’t,” I say.

Talia shakes her head. “Me neither.”

Marco looks confused. “We didn’t.”

Nina puts her phone away, like she can pocket the problem. “It doesn’t matter who did. She’s here. If she walks out with ‘Grace Lee dodges safety questions’ on her notes app, we lose leverage. If she walks out with a controlled statement, we buy time.”

I look at the shade wall, at the neat boxes with my name on them, at the words Feel Great, Look Great printed in silver that catches the ring light. I remember filming the launch video three times because my smile looked fake on the first two. That was supposed to be the hard part.

“What do we do?” Talia asks, and it’s aimed at me, not Nina.

Nina answers anyway. “We do not respond emotionally. We do not go live. We issue a short statement. We tell the editor we’re ‘reviewing claims’ and ‘committed to safety.’ We focus on the meeting.”

Marco clears his throat. “A statement that sounds like every brand statement will look guilty.”

Nina’s eyes flick to him. “A statement that sounds like a CEO will sound like a CEO.”

Talia laughs once, sharp. “She’s not a CEO on TikTok. She’s Grace. People think they know her.”

I pick up a primer bottle. It’s heavy, frosted glass, the cap snug. I wanted it to feel expensive in a hand that might never hold anything expensive. The label is perfect, no bubbles.

My phone vibrates again. A new notification from TikTok: Your video is trending in Beauty. Under it: New trending search—“Feel Great rash.”

I can already see the stitches. “I knew she was fake.” “I liked her until this.” “Why do influencers think they’re chemists.”

Nina watches my face, tracking what I’m about to do. “Grace. Look at me. You have one job this morning. Walk into that room at ten and look unshakable.”

Talia steps closer to the cart, closer to me. Her voice drops. “You always say self-care is telling the truth to yourself. Don’t let them turn you into a press release.”

Marco opens his folder again, taps the batch sheet. “If you want to be specific, we can be specific. We can point people to batch numbers, explain the preservative, show compliance. It’s boring, but it’s real.”

Outside, a siren winds through the rain, then fades. Inside, the ring lights hum like they’re impatient.

My phone screen shows the glitchy filter preview again, my face briefly perfect before the red bloom spreads. Nina wants control and silence. Talia wants my voice, loud and immediate. Marco wants facts, even if they don’t fit the platform.

I set the primer down and reach for my phone, thumb tapping once as I line up the next move, knowing whatever I choose will cost me something before noon.