14. Cassian
CASSIAN
The conference room gleams. I've been here since nine-thirty, reviewing proposals that Jordan compiled overnight, checking projections that don't need checking because I've memorized every number.
My father sits at the head of the table, tablet open. Gray suit today, silver cufflinks catching light when he moves. He hasn't spoken since we entered the room ten minutes ago, which means he's either strategizing or testing my patience.
Jordan pokes his head through the doorway. "Sir, they're here. Should I?—"
"Bring them in," my father says without looking up.
I straighten in my chair, smooth my tie. Black suit, white shirt, no pattern to distract. Professional, locked in, not at all like someone whose heart is currently trying to punch through his ribcage.
Footsteps approach down the hallway. Two sets, one heavier than the other.
Katheryn Caldwell enters first, dressed in a tailored green blazer over black trousers, carrying a leather portfolio that looks as sleek as she is.
She's confident, comfortable in spaces like this, extends her hand to my father with the ease of someone who's negotiated with billionaires before.
And considering who her husband is, she certainly has.
"Lucian. Good to see you again."
"Katheryn." He stands, shakes her hand. "It's been too long."
"Two years, I think. That charity auction in the Hamptons."
"Sounds about right. Send your husband my warmest regards."
Then Amara steps through the doorway and every thought in my head goes silent.
She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that hits just below the knee, structured but not rigid, fabric that moves when she does.
Her curly hair is pulled back, showing off her face, and minimal makeup accentuates her features.
Our eyes meet and hold for half a second before she looks away to focus on my father instead.
"Mr. Griffin," she says, extending her hand. "Thank you for the opportunity to meet."
"Please, call me Lucian." He shakes her hand, studies her with that assessing gaze he uses on everyone. "Your work is extraordinary. Cassian showed me the pieces from your Barcelona period. Remarkable."
"Thank you, sir."
"No need for formality. We're all here to explore possibilities." He gestures toward the chairs. "Please, sit."
Katheryn takes the seat across from my father. Amara sits beside her, diagonal from me, close enough that I can see the pulse point in her neck, the way her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of her portfolio.
She's nervous. Good.
My father taps his tablet, pulls up something on the screen mounted on the wall behind him. Images flood the display. Amara's work from various exhibitions, pieces I recognize from her website, a few I haven't seen before that must be recent.
"Black Lake's been coasting," he begins without preamble.
"For five years we've relied on legacy and name recognition while our competitors innovate.
We need cultural relevance. We need to reconnect with voices that matter, with art that challenges and provokes.
" He gestures toward the screen. "Your work does that, Ms. Campbell. "
"Amara," she corrects gently.
"Amara." He nods. "What I'm proposing is a full collaboration.
Not just licensing your images for prints on fabric, but a genuine partnership.
Your art inspires a new clothing line. You have creative input at every stage.
We provide resources, manufacturing, distribution, marketing.
Revenue sharing on terms that reflect your contribution. "
Katheryn leans forward. "What kind of timeline are we looking at?"
"Six months from concept to launch. Aggressive, but manageable with proper coordination."
"And creative control?" Amara asks. She's not looking at me. "How much input do I actually have versus how much gets decided by committee?"
Good question. I lean back slightly, let my father handle it.
"You'd work directly with our design team," he says. "Final approval on every piece. If something doesn't align with your vision, it doesn't move forward. This only works if it's authentic."
"What about commercial viability? I assume Black Lake has opinions on what sells."
"Of course. But we're banking on the fact that authenticity is what sells right now.
People want meaning. They want to feel connected to something bigger than just fashion.
" He swipes to another image, one of Amara's pieces from London, abstract figures in motion against a scarlet background.
"This speaks to people. We want to capture that. "
Amara glances at Katheryn, some silent communication passing between them. Then she opens her portfolio, pulls out a series of photographs and mockups.
"I brought examples of recent work," she says, sliding them across the table. "Pieces that explore displacement, identity, the violence of existing between cultures. If we move forward, these themes would be central to whatever we create."
My father studies the images, flips through them methodically. I watch his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He's good at hiding what he thinks, decades of negotiations teaching him to keep his cards close.
"This one," he says finally, tapping a photograph of a mixed media piece, torn canvas layered over abstract shapes, white peonies jutting from the center. My spine straightens. Are those the flowers I sent her? "What's the concept?"
Amara's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Beauty emerging from wreckage. The idea that destruction and creation aren't opposites, but parts of the same process."
"It's striking."
"Thank you."
Katheryn jumps in, steering the conversation back to logistics. "If we move forward, what does the contract look like? Revenue split, creative approval, timeline milestones, I'll need specifics before we commit."
"My legal team will draw up terms," my father replies. "But broadly, sixty-forty split in your favor, with escalating percentages tied to sales benchmarks. Creative approval vested in Amara with consultation from our design leads. Six-month production timeline with check-ins every three weeks."
"Sixty-forty seems steep."
"We're providing all infrastructure, manufacturing, and marketing. That requires investment."
"Which you'll recoup within the first quarter if this performs as expected." Katheryn's voice is calm, but there's steel underneath. "Seventy-thirty or we walk."
My father almost smiles. He respects people who push back. "Sixty-five thirty-five. Final offer."
Katheryn glances at Amara. Another silent exchange. Then Amara nods once.
"Acceptable," Katheryn says. "Pending review of the full contract."
"Naturally."
The conversation continues—details about mockups and production schedules and marketing strategies—but I'm only half-listening.
My attention keeps drifting to Amara, the way she leans forward when something interests her, how her fingers tap against the table when she's thinking.
She hasn't looked at me directly since we sat down.
Hasn't acknowledged my presence beyond that initial eye contact in the doorway.
It shouldn't bother me. This is business, exactly what I wanted when I proposed this collaboration. But it does bother me. It bothers me that she's sitting three feet away and might as well be in another city.
My father wraps up the preliminaries. "We'll have contracts drawn up by end of week. Assuming everything looks good, we can begin mockups next Monday."
"Sounds reasonable," Katheryn says, standing. Amara follows, gathering her portfolio.
"Amara," my father says. "Before you go, I wanted to let you know that Cassian will be your primary contact throughout this process. He'll coordinate with our design team, handle logistics, and ensure everything runs smoothly."
Her eyes flick to me finally, but it doesn't last long. "Of course."
"Any issues with that arrangement?"
"No issues."
Liar. But she's too smart to object in front of my father and Katheryn. She'll save that fight for later.
They shake hands again, exchange pleasantries about schedules and next steps. Then Katheryn and Amara head toward the door. I stand, intending to walk them out, but my father catches my arm.
"Let Jordan handle it," he murmurs. "We need to talk."
I watch them disappear down the hallway, Amara's burgundy dress the last thing I see before they turn the corner.
My father closes the door, moves back to the table. "She's good."
"I told you she would be."
"Katheryn's sharp too. That contract negotiation was impressive."
"She's been doing this for years. She knows her worth."
He studies me over the rim of his coffee cup. "You didn't say much during the meeting."
"You were handling it fine."
"That's not why." He sets the cup down. "You were too busy staring at Amara to contribute anything useful."
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. "I wasn't staring."
"You absolutely were. If this is going to work, you need to focus. This collaboration is good for Black Lake, but only if it's executed properly. I can't have you distracted by whatever personal history exists between you two."
"I'm not distracted."
"Then prove it. Keep this professional. Don't let whatever feelings you have compromise the partnership."
I meet his gaze straight on. "I won't."
He nods once, satisfied. "Good. Now get Jordan to send over those design team schedules. If we're starting mockups Monday, I want everyone aligned by Friday."
I leave his office, walk back down the hallway toward my own. The conference room where we just met is empty now, chairs pushed back from the table, Amara's portfolio photos still spread across the polished surface.
I gather them carefully, stack them in order.
The photo of the mixed media piece with the white peonies sits on top.
I stare at it for a long moment, recognizing the flowers I sent, the sculpture she built around my gift.
This means something. The fact that she didn't toss my flowers and used it for an art piece is significant.
Beauty emerging from wreckage.
Is that what she thinks of our history? A wreckage? We produced something beautiful together, a daughter with my eyes that deserves to know about me.
And as much as I respect Amara and her desire to keep her distance from me, there's only so much I can take. I need to see her again soon, and I won't take no for an answer.