6. Henry
HENRY
It’s Monday. A journalist from a British style magazine sits across from my desk, legs crossed, recorder somewhere in her lap. Jane Brown. I remember her name because she’s interviewed me twice before, and both times she’s spent more energy flirting than asking questions.
“Seoul expansion,” she says, twirling her pen. “When do you officially announce?”
“Soon,” I say. “They’ve been waiting for us.”
She nods and looks like she might take a note, but her pad is blank.
“And Zara Blake. That must have been a blow.”
“Sorry?” I ask.
“The exclusive with Vue?” Jane pauses, clearing her throat. “She was with Carter, wasn’t she?”
Was.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. Natalie’s face materializes in my mind and there’s no doubt she’s behind this.
She sat through that gala meeting, listening as I pitched Zara as keynote, then she poached her right out from under me.
We were supposed to renew with Zara next month; we were mid-renegotiation.
Natalie is something else. Infuriating. Sharp. Sneaky. And so goddamn hot it’s becoming a serious problem.
I thought I had her Saturday night. She let her guard slip, just for a second.
Then she walked away and left me standing there, hard and restless, with fantasies that haven’t let go since.
I took care of it myself, thinking about her.
She’d get a kick out of that. While I was losing sleep over her, she was out stealing my ambassador.
I manage what I hope looks like a composed smile and shrug. “Zara’s always had a philanthropic streak. I suppose this fits her brand.”
The interview wraps up soon after. I walk Jane to the door, shake her hand, tell her to call if she needs anything else. I’m professional, controlled, but the second she’s gone, I’m at my laptop, pulling up the announcement with fingers that aren’t quite steady.
Zara Blake Signs Two-Year Exclusive with Vue
I sit back in my chair and something between a laugh and a breath escapes me. My pulse hammers against my collar as if I have just finished a sprint. I force myself to take a slow sip of water while my mind races.
Zara has been with us since her second indie film, back when her entire wardrobe fit in a single garment bag. Every premiere look, every gala, every staged “off-duty” photo leaving a sushi bar was Carter. Natalie just walked in and took her. How did she pull it off?
I press the intercom and try to keep my voice level.
“Linda.”
My assistant appears in the doorway, fast and silent in a black shift dress with red lacquered nails and a severe bun. At sixty-three, she is the most fearsome presence in the building, other than my mother.
“Tell social to flood the feed with Zara,” I say. “I want every Carter look she has ever worn, from runway to airport, trending. If she breathed near our brand, I want it online.”
Linda nods once. “Loop in PR?”
“Call everyone. And find out everything you can about Natalie Wright. Everything.”
She vanishes without a sound and I’m already turning back to my screen.
The article with the announcement is clean and understated.
No quote from Natalie. No grandstanding.
Just the headline and a photo of Zara smiling in a silk set from Vue’s new collection.
It’s smart. Let the victory speak for itself.
I find myself scrolling through the coverage, looking for any mention of Natalie’s name, any quote, any insight into how she managed this. There’s nothing. She’s a ghost in her own triumph, which somehow makes it even more impressive.
I try Zara’s number, and it goes straight to voicemail. Before I can set my phone down, it rings. I know it’s Mom before I glance at the screen.
“I’m handling it,” I say, answering the call.
“How could you let this happen?” Her voice is flat. She never yells. She doesn’t need to. Her calm disappointment cuts deeper than shouting ever could.
“How could I have anticipated this?” I sink back into my leather chair, letting her lecture wash over me as I half-listen.
“You don’t get to be surprised, Henry. Not in this business. Zara is a Carter face. You let her slip away. It undermines everything we’ve built. If Vue gains even an inch from this—”
“They won’t,” I cut in automatically, though I’m not sure I believe it. Zara’s star is rising, and every campaign we’ve built around her has paid off handsomely.
“You’d better hope not.” A deliberate pause, just long enough for the weight of her threat to settle in the silence. “We’ll talk tonight. Dinner.”
Perfect. Just what I need. Another lecture on my failures, served with a side of poached salmon.
No matter what I accomplish, she always finds a flaw, something else that needs fixing.
I’ve been working here since I graduated, and I have yet to hear a single word of praise.
If I worked anywhere else, I’d likely be CEO by now.
But Mom still treats me like an intern who can’t be trusted with the keys.
Sometimes I’m not even sure I want them.
I shove the treacherous thought aside before it can take root.
“I look forward to hearing about our retaliation,” she says, and the line goes dead.
Retaliation. Right. I drag a hand down my face. Natalie has just declared war. There is no other way to read it. She could have had anyone, but she went for Zara. She went for what was ours.
Who the hell is this woman? She must be backed by serious money. The kind that doesn’t bother putting its name on billboards because it owns the land underneath them. Nobody tangles with Carter head-on without heavy backup.
I close my eyes, take a steadying breath, and the plan snaps into place. It’s petty and perfect. It’ll infuriate her and ruin her week without making a scene. Only she will know it came from me.