Chapter 23
Gen
It’s a testament to the efficiency and hard work of the legal teams on both sides of the deal that we manage to pull the whole thing off by David’s deadline. A week after our initial meeting with Anton and his colleagues, I find myself travelling to his offices to sign the final contract.
It’s been a speedy induction into the world of Anton Wolff.
When you have his money and energy and network, no is not a word you need to hear. Nothing is impossible. Everyone comes around, and everything gets done just as you want it, when you want it.
No wonder he’s been so bad at hearing the word no from me.
No wonder he doesn’t respond well to being kept waiting for anything.
A Google search told me the offices I’m visiting today a few streets away from us in Mayfair are the headquarters for Wolff Holdings, the umbrella corporation for Anton’s myriad business interests.
Dotted around London and the rest of the world are countless more offices representing the various sectors in which he operates.
Simply trying to absorb an online diagram of his holding structures made me feel dizzy.
With this many moving parts to juggle, his presence at last week’s meeting felt even more suspect.
There’s no way Anton Wolff could have justified taking an hour out of his day to sit in on an exploratory meeting about a little pop-up.
He was either there for me, or he was there because he has a vested interest in setting up a second channel for sex on tap over the summer.
I’m not sure which makes me feel more uncomfortable.
Anyway, I’m armoured up in a fitted black Dolce and Gabbana shift dress, my highest black heels, and beautiful black lace underwear from Fleur du Mal.
I feel elegant and competent. Empowered.
I have no idea if I’ll even see the Big Bad Wolff today, but I always like to be mentally ready, and channeling my inner goddess is always a good way to prepare for going head to head with the patriarchy.
Besides, there’s never an excuse for a bad lingerie game.
Ever.
The headquarters are certainly imposing. They’re in a dashing old-school office building, and they have a timeless quality about them. I was expecting soulless steel and glass, but instead the vibe is that of an old bank. Opulent. Exclusive. Slightly intimidating.
I’m representing Alchemy alone today. Our lawyers have been through the final version of the contract and given me the green light to sign it in person.
I’m met in the lobby of the fifth floor by a stunning young woman who resembles a Titian painting and introduces herself as ‘Athena, Mr Wolff’s Executive Assistant’.
What a shocker that Anton Wolff hires attractive staff members. Max and that lawyer, David, were both easy on the eye the other day, too.
Speak of the devils. They’re both sitting on a low, plump sofa when I enter the room.
They stand at the sight of me, but my eyes go straight to the man himself.
He’s reclining in a big leather chair behind a huge desk, backlit against a wall of windows.
His stance radiates power and success, as does this whole setup.
I’m sure it’s designed for this exact effect, but that doesn’t stop it from working.
It’s working for me very well indeed.
He pushes to his feet with a smile more appreciative than any he granted me last week.
He’s got a self-satisfied vibe, too. And why shouldn’t he?
He’s baited me into his lair, and I’m about to get into bed with him, professionally speaking.
He’s in his usual uniform and, as usual, the crisp white shirt, open at the neck, looks seriously great on him.
Is he more tanned than last week? It seems that way.
‘Genevieve,’ he says. ‘It’s good of you to come.’ He rounds the desk, a hand extended, and I shake. It would be incredibly rude not to, and I managed it last week, after all. Besides, the sky won’t fall because I shake the guy’s hand.
My no-touching policy doesn’t need to affect my basic professional demeanour.
Anton’s grip is warm and strong, and for some reason, I feel engulfed by it.
His deep brown eyes hold mine as we shake, and I have to force myself to hold eye contact.
Even fucking eye contact with this guy is a lot.
My initial impression from that first interview, that everything about Anton Wolff is more than in the flesh, reasserts itself.
‘You remember Max and David,’ he says, and I shake their hands, glad of the reprieve from having Anton’s eyes boring into my very soul.
Despite the bright light of a sunny May afternoon, the room feels wonderfully intimate. It’s the warmth of the deep grey paintwork. The richness of colour from the stunning oils punctuating it. They’re diverse, but cohesive. And is that a Degas on the wall?
I take a seat on the long sofa between David and Max. Athena pours everyone sparkling water before perching on the edge of one of the armchairs. We make a little small talk, we all sign several copies of the contract with a flourish, and Anton calls for champagne.
What the hell? It’s six o’clock. The Big Bad Wolff is at his most charming, the presence of the others has assuaged my nerves somewhat, and Max is so drily hilarious as he riles Anton and good-naturedly teases Athena that I begin to relax.
On my other side, David’s energy is quieter.
More gentlemanly. He has a protector vibe, and it gives me reassurance, too.
I have the oddest feeling, as we make quick work of the first bottle of vintage Krug and Anton himself opens another with dramatic flair, that he’s cast some sort of spell on me.
It’s as if I’m a fairytale heroine and he’s the charismatic but morally grey antihero, coaxing me into forgetting the real world exists.
Into believing that all that matters is being here, in his enchanted kingdom.
He’s charmed me into a false sense of security.
Everyone’s loosening up. I’m loosening up. Anton’s charming, and witty, and disarmingly frank, as we begin a low-level gossip session about the state of most of our Members of Parliament and leaders of industry.
He knows everyone, it seems. He has a story about most of them, and he divulges his inside scoops in the most delicious way. If I’ve previously suspected him of wielding disarmament as a weapon, I’m sure of it now.
And yet I’m going along with it, riding high on a tide of intellectual stimulation and delicious champagne and feel-good hormones. The bubble is real, and intact, and a delightful place to be.
It stays intact until Anton leans forward in his seat, legs wide and hands steepled and body language open.
Until he says the following.
‘I think it’s time to have some fun, don’t you?’
Until he looks straight at me as he says it.