28. Sinclair
Sinclair
“Vanessa Tan wants to see you, sir,” my assistant says, popping her head around my office door. “She says it’s urgent.”
I sigh. It’s not even nine in the morning.
What could possibly be urgent? “Sure. Send her in.” I’ve been steering clear of Vanessa.
Last week, she sent through an alternate pitch for the solène campaign featuring a fair-haired model with distinct Lily Rose Depp vibes.
I hated every bit of it and signed off on it immediately.
Seconds later, Vanessa is striding through my doorway in her usual vertiginous heels. Even by her standards, she looks pissed. I gird my loins and lean back a little in my chair to remind her who’s actually in charge here.
“Vanessa. Good morning.”
She marches right up to my desk and slams her phone down on it. “Tell me that isn’t who I think it is.”
I have no idea where this is going, but I glance down.
Holy fuck.
I sit upright and pick up the phone. It’s a long-lens shot of me and Elyse leaving the Met last night, and it’s on Page fucking Six. Headline: WELL MET—Sinclair Voss and mystery brunette attend the ballet.
This was not part of the plan at all. Fuck. I didn’t even know we’d been snapped. In the image, I’m gazing down at her as if she hung the moon, while she looks up at me with much the same expression.
When you’re wrong-footed, the best thing to do is brazen it out. I slide the phone back to Vanessa with far more apparent equanimity than I exhibited during our last showdown. “What’s your point?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at me. “There are two versions of this little meet-cute that I can come up with. And I’m assuming that the version where you were so besotted with my candidate that you hunted her down after my pitch isn’t the right one.”
I match her glare but say nothing, mainly because I’m calibrating how the hell to de-escalate this as quickly and quietly as possible.
“Thought so.” She looks out of the window and shakes her head. “So you already knew her, and you nixed my entire creative concept because you didn’t want your secret girlfriend to see the light of day, for God knows whatever fucked-up reason.”
That’s enough of that. “No. I pushed for a different model because I had a personal conflict of interest.”
“Bullshit. You’re far too experienced not to know how to handle a conflict like that.
You sat across the table from me and you looked me in the eye and told me she was ‘generic.’ Meh, I think you said.
You told me she was nothing special, that she wasn’t worth the money.
Does your girlfriend know you talk about her like that?
Because honestly, the way you’re drooling over her on Page Six tells me you think she’s exactly the opposite of ‘unmemorable.’”
I stay as still as humanly possible, but inside I’m reeling.
I’m aware of what I said and did in that pitch meeting, sure, but having it thrown back at me now, after the Fairwater weekend and our first tentative steps out into the world last night, feels like a physical violation, my own words sticking to my skin like dogshit.
“I steered you in a different direction,” I say coolly, “because I wasn’t ready to make any pronouncements about my relationship at that point—not that I need to justify any of my personal or professional decisions to you.
Which is to say that this is precisely none of your business. So what your issue is, I don’t know.”
“My issue is that you brought me on board at vast expense and promised me full creative control before reaming me out for doing exactly what you hired me to do. My issue is you gaslighting me to my face, questioning my creative and commercial judgment in front of management, and overruling me on my launch, all because you didn’t like the fact that someone wanted to put your girlfriend up in Times Square.
” She plants her hands on her hips for added effect and, possibly, to keep them where she can’t use them to punch me.
“My issue is that you made your problem my problem. You made me second-guess myself for no reason at all, and you screwed your girlfriend over in the process.”
“Like I said,” I remind her, “I don’t have to explain myself to you, period.”
“No, you don’t, because Daddy put you in this office, and regular standards of professional conduct and respect and autonomy mean jack shit to useless, spineless little nepo babies like you.”
I push to my feet. She did not just say that to me. I brace my hands on my desk, and we eye each other like we’re preparing to throw punches.
“Clearly, professional respect is a foreign concept to you, too,” I spit out. “If you don’t want this job, then get the fuck out of here. I will not be spoken to like this.”
“Yeah, I bet you won’t. You like your women adoring and unquestioning, like Elyse, right?
” She looks down and shakes her head as if I am beyond all contempt.
“And don’t worry, I’m going. Consider this my formal resignation.
I have no place at a brand where the management acts like a toddler and treats everyone else as one, too. ”
Fuck. I called her bluff, and she called mine right back.
The truth is, Vanessa was my hire. I vouched for her.
I found the extra five hundred grand in stock options that she demanded to jump ship from Bellamy, our archrival.
And, much as it kills me to admit it, I need her to bring this launch home.
I hold my hands out in surrender. I’m prepared to back-pedal a little here, offer her what she needs so she stops throwing her toys out of her stroller.
“Vanessa…”
“No. Don’t Vanessa me. It’s too late—I’ve seen your true colors.” She turns to go and then halts, swiveling back to face me. “Just answer me one question. Did you at least have the balls to tell Elyse that you ruined the career opportunity of a lifetime for her right off the bat?”
I blink. I wasn’t expecting that. Shit. “I—”
“Yeah,” she says, looking me up and down in disgust. “Thought not. You spineless fucking douche.”
When she bangs the door shut behind her, I retake my seat. I’m shaking. How fucking dare she barge in here and demand answers from me? Who the fuck does she think she is? Trying to turn the tables, to make me feel guilty because her ego has taken some imaginary bashing, is unacceptable.
I tell myself that we can handle the rest of the launch without her.
She’s served her purpose at Voss. We got what we needed from her.
And, as the red mist settles into a cold rage, it occurs to me that this handles my loose end so effectively that it feels almost preformed: the Voss machine doing what it does best.
Because, if Vanessa Tan wants to walk away with any of her stock options at all, she’ll sign whatever exit NDAs I put in front of her.
Elyse and I will be free to date publicly.
Any decisions I was forced to make to secure our future will vanish into a locked vault, erased forever.
As with any problem, money is always the cleanest solution.