Royal Fashion glared down at me in the form of a garish neon sign at the top of the building. I had never met Laurence Royal before. But his shotty craftsmanship and bland ideas were legendary in my line of work. He had money to buy anything and everything he wanted, and recently I had become a new potential shiny toy he wanted to play with. So no, I hadn't met him, but his fingerprints had been all over my life for months. Something I was itching to fix.
I pressed my nails into my palms, instantly bringing an image of Tate to mind. His hands pulling at my fingers to keep me from hurting my palms. Kill Laurence now, try to figure out what to do about Tate after you hide the body.
Taking a deep breath, I walked through the front door, shoving both glass doors open wide with flair, making my entrance into enemy territory clear and wonderfully dramatic. I cast a long shadow across the floor, making me feel powerful and menacing. Accessing villainess mode.
I had come close to storming in before, but this time I had no baseball bat, and unfortunately, no torch to set the building on fire with. Gliding past the lobby secretary without a word, I made a beeline for the elevator, my jacket flapping out behind me like a cape. Look out, the evil rival fashionista has arrived!
Wearing what I liked to think was my signature 'go to war' colorâ RED, I sported a red pantsuit. I finished it off with a black blouse, and a pair of black pumps, enjoying the scary clack of my heels on the marble floors as I moved.
The sound echoed across the cold lobby, creating a dangerous rhythm that warned everyone around me to get out of my way.
"Excuse me!" The lobby secretary shouted as I sped towards the elevator, not bothering to ask for directions. I wouldn't be stopped by a glorified threshold guardian dressed in a green daisy sundress.
I expected to find Laurence Royal on the top floor and didn't want him to have a chance to prepare for my arrival. He never gave me a chance to process his moves. It was only fair that I reward his horrendous behavior with the same treatment.
"You can't justâ"
I walked into the elevator and hit the button for the top floor, enjoying the sound of the secretary's panic being cut off by the closing elevator doors.
Once alone, I allowed myself to deflate slightly. Relieved that for a beat I didn't have to pretend to be underwhelmed by the garish lobby, or the fact that the building had more than two floors. Or the fact that Royal Fashion even had a lobby secretary... or a lobby. My empire suddenly felt very small. Small but mighty Allie. Never forget that.
As was the apparent theme, the elevator music sounded too fancy, too loud, too much, and by the time it reached the top floor, I was ready to hurl from the cotton candy sweet tones and my bundle of angry nerves.
But that was quickly forgotten as I walked right into Laurence's office and discovered that the entire floor was an office with a three hundred and sixty-degree view that looked out onto the Los Angles skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Everything was decorated in dark oak and leather that smelled like musk and whisky. A classic man cave, turned office. Almost like I had stumbled into a Gentlemen's Only Club where men sat with cigars and mumbled about the stock market and wives spending all their profits.
I spotted a tall man at the far end of the room, sporting a deep blue suit. His back was to me as he stared out the window, most likely pretending to survey a kingdom that wasn't his to rule. You're not Mufasa dude. Quit being so dramatic.
"I take it by the message I just got from a very panicked secretary that this must be the famous Allie Winters," he said, still staring out at the view.
"Famous is a strong word," I replied from where I stood hovering by the elevator door. Is he planning on standing there all day like a brooding weirdo king?
"Would you prefer infamous then?" He turned, raising a brow, deep brown eyes looking me up and down with open curiosity.
Laurence Royal was an incredibly handsome man, with a sharp, strong jaw, thick wavy black hair that was slicked back out of his face, and a strong build. His attractive level was high on the annoying scale. There are men who are cute, men who are attractive, men who are hot, and men who are untrustworthy hot. He was untrustworthy hot.
"I would prefer not to be labeled at all," I replied dryly.
He smiled an easy smile that left me on edge. "Sharp," he replied motioning for me to take a seat in one of his leather chairs that sat before a large oak desk.
"What?" I asked, sitting down slowly, ignoring the way the leather felt like soft butter under me. It was illegally comfortable. I hated it.
"I can see why the paparazzi have taken such a liking to you as a subject. You are sharp." He sat down behind his large desk.
It was my turn to raise a brow. "They hate me."
He crossed his fingers together on the desk, pinning me with his eyes. "Love. Hate. It's all the same to them. They don't care whether you are the villain or the hero, so long as you inspire clicks and reads, Unhinged Fashionista."
I winced, hating the label.
"Has a nice ring to it."
"As much as I am enjoying this thrilling conversation about my public appearance, I would prefer to skip the pretend niceties and go straight to... why have you asked me here? Unless you aren't Laurence Royal, in which case I would like to know when your boss will be back."
He narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to read me. "Do I look like an assistant?"
I crossed my arms, allowing a cold smile to cross my lips. "You don't want to know what I think you look like."
Laurence leaned back in his chair, a sharp grin crossing his features. "I do actually. You have a good eye."
I rolled my eyes standing to my feet, patience gone. "You are stalling. Something that I find appalling."
"Answer my question and I will answer yours."
I stalled, looking him over like the Terminator would scan a potential threat. Then tilting my head to the side, my voice dripping with condescension, I gave him the unfiltered Allie truth, in quick jabs, much like Sherlock played by Benedict Cumberbatch would.
"Your tie is crooked and does nothing for your completion. I can tell this is the second day in a row you have worn this suit because it's too early in the day for it to be this wrinkled. The v neck under your shirt is more hipster businessman than classic hottie, which we both know is the actual look you are going for. So you missed the mark on that."
My eyes moved down. "Your shoes scream expensive, but your socks are at least..." I paused, calculating. "Eight years old, which means you know it is important to look fashionable, but you don't have an eye for detail, or frankly don't care to."
I sat back down and enjoyed with immense pleasure as his eyebrow went up in surprise. "Will my first once over of your clothing suffice? Or did you need me to explain to you that brown shoes with white socks are always a bad combination?"
He ran a hand along his jaw as if trying to keep an emotion from crossing his face. "I can see why Michale likes you."
I narrowed my eyes at the mention of my old photographer. The one he had stolen. I suppressed an angry animal-like sound.
"I can tell he is unhappy here. He does most of the shoots with little more than reluctant acceptance." I hid a smile. That's Michale for you. He never did well when he hated his work.
"If you are unsatisfied with him, I would be happy to take him off your hands," I offered with a sickly sweet smile.
Laurence stood up and walked around his desk, leaning against the front of it, now far closer than I was prepared for. I caught a hint of his cologne as sandalwood, cedar and musk tickled my nose. I couldn't place the name but it was an expensive brand.
"You know, I was actually surprised when he agreed to come on. He's incredibly loyal to you."
I fought the urge to pummel him with my high heel pump, and succeeded... barely.
"And I was quite surprised to discover that he had been undercharging you for years. Something that doesn't sound very much like the unflappable Allie Winters I had heard so much about. After all, your business is flourishing. So why is it taking you so long to run me out of town Ms. Winters?"
I did little to hide how deeply I loathed him, this conversation, and those terrible white socks that seemed to grow brighter as the conversation continued. "It takes time to make beautiful things, Mr. Royal. Although I can see that the concept is a foreign one to you. You do release the same designs year after year."
"And people buy them. They like consistency," he replied without missing a beat.
"They want to be inspired. Not conned into spending more for the same outfit they got the year before."
He blinked, looking startled. "Conned? I wouldn't insult the customers like that. People feel comfortable wearing things that they are familiar with. And I didn't ask you to come here so we could argue about clothing. Even if the idea of having a debate over clothing with you is thrilling."
I was about to laugh, but stopped when I realized he was serious. Why on earth would he want to get into a bickering match with me? What's his game?
"You see, Ms. Winters. You have an amazing talent. One that is lacking here. I have been in business long enough to know that the ones that flourish, work with innovative thinkers. Peopleâ"
"Get to the point Mr. Royal." I was over his villain-level monologuing.
"My point is that I would like to hire you."
My brain flatlined for a moment. "What?"
He adjusted his cuffs, dark eyes on his work. "Not hire actually. I would like to purchase Winters, you working here would be included in that deal."
I snorted, replying before I could filter out the thought and try to sound somewhat civil. "Over my dead body."
The room fell silent. A deadening deep silence sunk into all the leather in the room, tainting it in the memory of rejection forever. "Pardon?"
I stood up. "You heard me. I would rather die than let you take everything I've built."
He stared at me, face unreadable. But I could see that this was not the answer he had expected. Apparently he was unaccustomed to people saying no. "You'd still run your company, Ms. Winters."
"Yes, but with you breathing over my shoulder like a white sock with business shoe level freak."
He pulled out a set of sticky notes and wrote something down. "... I will make a note that my sock choice repulses you."
He stuck the sticky note on his desk, as if proving that he would make an effort to change the type of socks he wore. It was utterly ridiculous. Why would he bother making a note of a change when he clearly had no intention of following it through.
"It's more than that. I don't trust you to not drive Winters into the ground!" I snapped.
"Then let me do something to build trust," he replied, voice even, calm, collected like he wasn't talking about trying to yank my life out of my hands. He reached into his suit jacket and dropped several pieces of paper onto the small coffee table that sat between us.
"What is this?" I asked. Picking up the papers, I spotted several headlines that made all the blood leave my face.
"Headlines. Stories that a particular gossip column is intent on printing. The deal is simple Ms. Winters. I buy your company. You keep full creative control. You will have Michale working exclusively with you. Your budget is deeply expanded. You reach more people with your work. And these headlines disappear."
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Thank you for reading chapter thirty-three! I hope you are enjoying the story! Or are at least curious to see where it goes! Add this story to your reading list to know when the next chapter drops!
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What do you think of Laurence Royal?
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CHAPTER QUESTION - Have you ever had a rival? What were you fighting over? The best grade? A sport? The lead role in a play? Something else entirely?