16. Sinclair #2
Unfortunately, everything this woman does looks pornographic to me.
I am incapable of surveying her objectively, weighed down as I am with the most salacious memories a man could ever dream of.
And the truth is, I feel as much of a voyeur sitting here as I did the first time I trussed her up in that pillory and looked my fill. She has that effect on me.
The home movie comes to an end, thank Christ, and Vanessa clicks her controller, seemingly unaware that I’m on the brink of a major heart attack or panic attack or some kind of attack.
“These are the shots we took at the test shoot,” she continues, and Elyse’s face fills the screen once again, looking straight at the camera.
Her hair is scraped back in this one, and the part of me that runs a multibillion-dollar beauty empire can see that her skin is fucking flawless.
It’s dewy and slathered in product, and I wonder why she ever bothers with makeup.
“Her skin-mapping results were fantastic, and you can see how great she looks with just a little product.” Vanessa clicks on through the close-ups, and then we’re onto some more fluid shots of Elyse in a white tee against a plain white backdrop.
There’s nothing editorial about these images, but her natural beauty shines through.
“She’s stunning,” my idiot brother says, and I want to clock him.
“Did you say she hasn’t done any big campaigns before?” my chief marketing officer, Audra, asks from my other side.
“That’s right,” Vanessa says. “She’s only five-four, so I guess that’s limited her options.
She’s mainly done catalogue stuff, some smaller beauty brands, and jewelry.
But I’ve gotta say, I believe this is an instance where the portfolio isn’t a reflection of the person.
She’s a hidden gem, and she honestly encapsulates everything I want us to communicate for this brand. ”
She clicks onto another slide, which I assume is Elyse’s official headshot from Vantage.
She’s in a plain black shirt, hair tied back, and looks young and ethereal and perfect.
“Thoughts?” Her voice carries all the certainty that this is a mere formality, that she’s hit this particular ball out of the park.
She absolutely has.
And I absolutely cannot sign off on this campaign. I’ve known it from the moment she put Elyse’s face up there on that screen.
I lean forward and place my hands on the table. “She’s very pretty,” I say, making what feels like a herculean effort to keep my voice level at a time when I feel low-key hysterical, “but I think we can do better.”
My brother blows out an amused breath. Everyone else at the table turns and stares. And Vanessa puts down the remote so she can stand and plant her hands on the table.
“I beg your pardon?” she says in the kind of tone she might use if I suggested we should move to an all-male workforce.
I shrug, feigning a nonchalance I don’t feel.
“You heard me. She’s meh. A little too commercial.
” I know that word will land with Vanessa, and I mean it to.
I mean it to detonate. We all want commercial as an end point, but we need a model to have a vaguely editorial look, not a commercial one.
Not too edgy, but not too bland. They need to look as if they’re capable of giving us arty Vogue shots rather than modeling bras for fucking Sears.
Elyse is not too commercial. She is lovelier than I could ever articulate, and she is so fucking perfect for this campaign that I could weep.
Hers is a face in a million. The problem is that Vanessa knows that, and that the whole world will know that if this thing airs, and then Elyse will be public property.
Every brand under the sun will clamor for her next gig, her career will go stratospheric…
and I will have no leverage left, financial or otherwise.
She won’t be mine to coax, to mold, to pay.
I’ve just found her, and I pulled off the mother of all proposals to secure her, and she and I are perfect together behind closed doors.
We’re electric. And fucking Vanessa waltzes in here and, out of all the thousands of goddamn models in New York, tries to persuade me to share Elyse with the world?
I don’t fucking think so.
I found her first.
“I strongly disagree,” Vanessa says. “The consumer research we’ve done backs me up. Every demographic responded to her—every single age group overall chose hers as their favorite face for the brand over ten other faces.”
I’m starting to sweat. Of course they did. Of course they were dazzled by her. “She has a nice, girl-next-door vibe,” I say. “That’s it. She’s honestly generic. She’s not memorable.” Lies, all lies. She is impossible to forget. She is inimitable.
Vanessa actually gasps, as if what I’ve said is sacrilege, and quite rightly. “With respect, Sinclair, no one could call that face generic. She’s accessible, yes, but that’s different.” She straightens up and folds her arms.
“I disagree,” I lie.
“I think she has a very special look,” Seb says, and I throw him a look of disgust that I don’t need to fake. Just because he succumbed to Mom’s pressure and married a well-bred socialite with a stick up her ass, doesn’t mean he needs to drool all over what’s mine.
“Like you’d know,” I say. “Stick to the numbers, why don’t you?”
“I agree with Vanessa and Seb,” Audra chimes in. “She’s a beautiful young woman with an iconic look. Why you’re quite so opposed to her, I don’t understand.”
“It’s a gut thing,” I insist as my stomach drops. Of course someone had to go and drop the iconic bomb. “She’s fine, but she’s not the best we can do. I’d like you to go back to the drawing board.”
“Sinclair.” Vanessa’s voice is quiet and deadly. I suspect she’s seriously considering giving me a spontaneous tracheotomy with the heel of her very high pump. “This meeting is a courtesy. This is my project, and it’s precisely why you hired me. I make the call on who we cast, not you.”
I’m backed into a corner. I cannot let this happen.
I cannot let Elyse slip through my fingers.
My only option is to double down here. Sure, I feel vaguely shitty that I’m depriving her of this opportunity, but I’ll make it up to her.
I’ll pay her so much money to keep sucking my dick that she won’t miss this win at all.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but that’s not how it works around here. As CEO of the company, I get ultimate sign-off. And I say I’m not authorizing you to spend sixty-five million on a campaign around that girl. Find me someone else. Do you understand?”
She’s visibly trembling with rage. “You promised me full autonomy. Solène is my brand to run. Why the fuck would you bother to poach me when you’re going to overrule me?
I swear to you, I know better than you when it comes to positioning this brand.
I’ve served you up a once-in-a-generation face, and you’re determined to screw it up—and you haven’t given me a single valid reason as to why.
Generic—bullshit. She’s incredible, and you know it. ”
I stand and slam my hands so hard on the table that Audra jumps.
Apparently, Vanessa doesn’t know whom she’s dealing with.
If a member of the Voss family wants something killed, it gets killed.
If we want something buried, it gets buried.
This is the way it’s been for generations, and that means Ms. Tan is way out of her league here.
“That’s enough. I don’t need to justify myself to you or anyone else. You don’t like the hierarchy, then tough shit. Deal with it or walk. This girl won’t cut it. I want five more faces within a week. We’re done here.”
With that, I stalk out of the meeting room, banging the door so hard behind me that it rattles in its frame.
Vanessa isn’t the only one shaking with the intensity of their emotions.
Extreme stress calls for extreme measures.
I’m going to go back to my office, lock the door behind me, drink as many fingers of scotch as it fucking takes, and bang one out to that image of Elyse sucking on that goddamn Popsicle.