57 - The Deal Was Hers
Scarlett turned, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. The sound of her name—so familiar, so unexpected—had cut through the ambient murmur of the lobby like a whisper through silk.
She froze.
The voice tugged at something buried, something she hadn't allowed herself to revisit in years.
No. It couldn't be.
But it was.
Her breath hitched. "Andrian?" The name slipped from her lips in a stunned whisper, barely audible, like a ghost conjured from memory.
Standing just feet away was the man who had once unraveled her with a glance. And from the way her heart abruptly leapt, as if trying to escape her chest, maybe he still could.
Andrian.
He stood tall, effortlessly composed, like he belonged in every room he walked into.
The navy suit he wore hugged his broad shoulders with bespoke precision, the subtle pinstripes gleaming faintly beneath the atrium's glass ceiling.
His dark hair was tousled in that infuriatingly perfect way—like he'd just rolled out of bed in Santorini with no time for a mirror and still looked like he belonged on a magazine cover.
He smiled.
That damn smile.
It started slow, curving just one corner of his mouth, and hit her like a warm wind off the Aegean. For a moment, the years evaporated.
Scarlett's corporate poise dissolved. "Oh my god—Andrian." Her laugh bubbled up, part joy, part disbelief. Without thinking, she closed the distance between them in a few swift steps. His arms opened on instinct, and she melted into him, letting the past pull her in for a heartbeat.
He still smelled the same—cedarwood with a hint of citrus—and suddenly she was back on that sun-soaked terrace in Greece, barefoot, breathless, tasting salt on her lips and laughter on the wind.
When she finally pulled back, the spell snapped just enough for reality to creep in. Linda was watching them with a puzzled look, and the receptionist across the room was failing miserably to feign disinterest.
Scarlett cleared her throat and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to summon her professional veneer. "Sorry. It's... been a long time."
Andrian cocked his head, his hands slipping casually into his pockets as he studied her with a mixture of amusement and something warmer, deeper. "That it has."
Andrian tilted his head, hands slipping into his pockets as he studied her—amused, yes, but there was something deeper there. Something familiar. "That it has."
The reason for her visit snapped back into focus.
"Oh—sorry, Andrian." She gestured vaguely toward the reception desk. "I completely forgot why we're here. We're supposed to meet with the CEO, but apparently I need an appointment just to breathe the same air as him. The receptionist won't budge."
She hesitated, then leaned in, voice dropping. "Do you work here? Can you... help me?"
His grin turned slow and mischievous. He tapped his chin theatrically, pretending to think. "Depends. What's in it for me?"
She rolled her eyes, but the smile betrayed her. "Okay. You win a coffee."
He hummed, considering. "The price feels a little low." Then, casually—dangerously—"Maybe I could help if it were lunch."
Scarlett didn't even pause. Her mind was still spinning, her defenses down. "Okay. Cool. Lunch."
Without another word, Andrian turned and strolled toward the receptionist.
Scarlett watched, mystified, as he leaned in and murmured something too low to catch. The change in the woman's demeanor was almost comical—her eyes widened, a flush rose to her cheeks, and her formerly rigid posture melted into something suspiciously accommodating.
"O-of course, sir. Please," she stammered, gesturing toward the elevators with a trembling hand, "take the express."
Scarlett blinked, sharing a bewildered glance with Linda. "What did you say to her?" she asked as they stepped toward the gleaming doors.
Andrian gave her a cryptic look, eyes twinkling. "Just a little magic."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and they stepped inside.
The space was sleek and mirrored, reflecting the tension that now hung between them like a thin wire.
Andrian stood close, not touching, but his presence curled around her like heat.
Scarlett found herself acutely aware of the weight of his gaze, the subtle scent of his cologne, the slow rise and fall of his breath.
Linda shifted beside her, silent but curious, clearly reading the air.
Andrian pressed the button marked P. "Top floor."
Scarlett's brows drew together. "That's where the executive offices are?"
He offered a noncommittal shrug. "Among other things."
The elevator shot upward, her stomach briefly floating. Questions jostled in her head, but none of them found words before the doors whispered open.
They stepped into a reception area that exuded understated opulence. Dark wood paneling framed walls adorned with contemporary art—actual pieces, not corporate prints. Everything smelled of clean leather and polished stone.
Andrian moved with purpose down the corridor. Staff passed them with murmured greetings, each one acknowledging him with a nod that carried weight—deference, not obligation.
Scarlett's confusion deepened with each step.
He pushed open a pair of double doors, revealing an office that looked more like a penthouse suite than a workspace.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the skyline in breathtaking detail.
A massive desk made of a single, stunning slab of walnut sat near the windows.
Artifacts, not trinkets, filled the shelves—African sculpture, Japanese ceramics, a vintage Leica camera.
"Please," Andrian said, gesturing to the plush leather chairs arranged around a smoked glass coffee table, "make yourselves comfortable."
Scarlett sat on the edge of one, her back straight. Linda followed, casting her a side-eye that screamed what is happening?
Andrian moved to a sleek sideboard, lifting a glass carafe. "Water? Coffee? Something stronger?"
"Water's good," Scarlett murmured, watching him like he was a puzzle that kept rearranging its pieces.
He handed her the crystal glass, their fingers brushing.
She sipped, the cool water doing little to settle the rising tide of unease.
"You should probably get back to work," she said slowly. "We'll wait outside for the CEO. I mean... this is his office, right?"
He didn't answer at first. Just smiled. Not the smirk—something softer. Wistful.
"Relax, Scarlett. I've got time."
As if on cue, the door swung open. A woman entered like a blade—slim, sharp, no-nonsense. Her black dress was impeccably tailored, and her high bun added two inches to her already formidable presence.
"Mr. Richard," she said, not glancing at Scarlett or Linda, "your stakeholder meeting is in thirty minutes. Tokyo moved their call to four."
Scarlett froze.
Mr. Richard?
Her head snapped toward Andrian, the glass in her hand tilting.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking—finally—just a little sheepish.
She stared. "Wait... you're Mr. Richard?"
"Guilty," he said with a shrug and a crooked smile. "Surprise."
Her mouth fell open. "You—Andrian! You knew we were here to meet the CEO!"
"I didn't lie," he said, laughing. "You made an assumption. I simply... allowed it."
She smacked his arm, hard enough to feel satisfying. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been told that," he replied, unrepentant. "Though I prefer 'charmingly unpredictable.'"
She shook her head, but a smile crept through her exasperation. "You've always been impossible," she muttered. "Mr. Richard."
His hand found hers, warm and steady. "Call me Andrian. 'Mr. Richard' makes me sound like my father."
She sighed. "Fine. Andrian."
They lingered in the silence, eyes locked, something unspoken trembling in the air between them. The past. The maybe. The what if.
Then Linda, ever the realist, cleared her throat with precision timing. "Now that we've solved the mystery of the missing CEO," she said, with dry amusement, "shall we talk business?"
Scarlett exhaled, straightened, and nodded. "Right. Business."
Rebecca—the assistant—left with a nod, shutting the door behind her.
Business came alive.
The shift was unmistakable—the room itself seemed to tighten when Scarlett leaned forward, fingertips resting against the cool glass table. Whatever softness lingered from recognition and nostalgia disappeared, replaced by something honed and deliberate. She didn't perform authority.
She embodied it.
She walked Andrian through the Blackwood proposal with measured precision—numbers unfolding with intent, strategy layered with long vision.
The French fashion expansion wasn't framed as a land grab but as a calculated positioning of influence.
Paris as the anchor. Milan and Monaco as controlled satellites. Limited exposure. Maximum impact.
Linda flowed in beside her seamlessly, reinforcing timelines, regulatory approvals, and operational structure.
Andrian listened.
Not with polite interest. With focus.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes locked on Scarlett as she spoke. When she finished outlining the regional rollout, silence settled—dense, analytical.
"France is saturated," he said at last. "Luxury fatigue is real. What stops Blackwood from becoming just another foreign label fighting for shelf space?"
Scarlett didn't blink. "We don't fight for shelf space," she replied calmly. "We create our own."
A hint of a smile touched his mouth—but his gaze sharpened.
"And distribution?" Andrian continued. "You're talking about expansion without dilution. That's a dangerous balance. How do you scale across the region without losing brand identity?"
This time, Scarlett paused.
Not from uncertainty—but because the answer required alignment.
She reached for her phone. "Let me loop in Mr. Blackwood."
Linda glanced up. Andrian's brows lifted almost imperceptibly.
The screen illuminated seconds later.
Ethan Blackwood appeared—immaculate suit, sleeves crisp, jaw set in its familiar line of restraint. His eyes flicked to Andrian, a flash of surprise surfacing before control snapped back into place.
Scarlett moved seamlessly. "Andrian's raised concerns about maintaining brand authority during the French expansion—especially across neighboring markets. Can you walk us through Blackwood's safeguard model?"
Ethan leaned closer to the camera. "Of course."
He outlined Blackwood's selective partnership strategy—centralized creative control through Paris, regional licensing under strict compliance, limited storefronts, invitation-only launches. No mass rollout. No compromise.
Scarlett picked up instantly, translating structure into vision—how controlled scarcity would heighten desirability, how regional directors would report directly to the Paris design house, bypassing local influence entirely.
Andrian's questions came sharper now. Faster. More technical.
And each time, Scarlett was ready—answering directly or guiding Ethan with effortless precision, steering the conversation rather than reacting to it.
Ethan watched her.
Not just listening—watching.
The way she anticipated objections before they surfaced. The way she closed gaps between strategy and execution. The way she commanded the room without ever raising her voice.
When the final question settled, Andrian leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"I'm impressed," he said, the words carrying weight beyond business.
Then he turned toward the screen. "Mr. Blackwood. The deal's in. I'm ready to sign."
For a fraction of a second, Ethan didn't mask his reaction.
Something flickered—surprise, respect, recalibration.
"I'll prepare the papers," he said evenly, and disconnected the call.
The screen went dark.
And in the quiet that followed, the shift was undeniable.
Both men had just watched Scarlett take control of the room—and the future of the deal.
Scarlett's breath escaped in a rush. She turned to him, glowing. "You're serious?"
He stood, smiling. "Deadly."
She laughed, eyes shining, and threw her arms around him before she could think better of it. "Thank you."
His arms came around her easily, naturally. "Don't thank me yet," he whispered into her hair. "You did a great job"
She pulled back slightly, her face inches from his. The air between them shimmered.
"You hungry?" he asked. "Lunch? To celebrate?"
She hesitated, glancing at Linda, at the documents still scattered before them. "I've still got work to do for the final contract. And... are you flying tomorrow?"
"No," he said, smoothing the cuffs of his jacket. "Postponing. This new venture takes priority."
A flicker of surprise lit her eyes. "Then... maybe later this week. After we wrap up."
His smile was slow and sure. "Of course."
And in that single promise, something old and fragile began to breathe again.
Catherine's heels clicked a sharp, staccato rhythm across the polished mahogany floor of her office, each step a testament to her mounting frustration.
Through the glass wall that separated her office from the rest of the executive suite, she could see Ethan Blackwood—head down, brow furrowed, a pen tapping rhythmically against a thick stack of documents.
His suit jacket hung on the back of his chair, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up just enough to reveal lean, tensed forearms. That same jaw—sharp, angular, perpetually clenched in thought—tightened with each turn of the page.
God, he looked good when he was focused. So infuriatingly composed.
Catherine paused, allowing herself a beat too long to watch him.
There was a quiet intensity in the way he worked—like the rest of the world had fallen away.
Even now, with stress bleeding into every line of his face, he looked like something out of a Calvin Klein ad: serious, magnetic, maddeningly untouchable.
Untouchable, thanks to her.
Scarlett Blackwood.
Catherine's lips curled into something more sneer than smile.
That woman was like a stubborn stain—always present, always in the way.
From the moment she married into the Blackwood family, she'd been clawing her way into meetings, strategies, decisions—into Ethan's world.
Every step forward Catherine took, Scarlett was somehow already there, grinning like she belonged.
And now she'd gone off chasing Andrian Richard of all people.
Catherine could hardly believe it. The man was practically a corporate ghost—impossible to pin down, selective to the point of arrogance.
She'd spent months nurturing his team, carefully building rapport, playing the long game.
It had taken finesse, strategy, late-night calls with junior partners and "accidental" run-ins at private functions. That deal was hers.
Or it was supposed to be.
Catherine exhaled slowly, smoothing the front of her navy pencil skirt with both palms. No sense pacing like a caged animal. Action—that's what Ethan respected. Results.
Without hesitation, she strode across the hallway, each step poised, deliberate. She paused in his doorway just long enough to let her silhouette catch his attention. He didn't look up.
She tapped the doorframe lightly with her knuckle. "Got a minute?"
Ethan glanced up, distracted, but his features softened when he saw her. "Catherine. Yeah, come in."
She stepped inside, moving with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how to use every inch of her presence.
She perched on the edge of his desk, the angle allowing her skirt to ride up just enough—subtle, never overt.
Her perfume, something expensive and barely noticeable, lingered in the air between them.
"I'm... concerned about the Richard deal," she began, voice low, measured. "Something's not sitting right."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, brows knitting. "What do you mean?"
"Scarlett's handling it," she said, letting just the slightest edge of skepticism color her tone. "Andrian Richard isn't exactly known for his openness. I doubt she even secured a meeting."
Ethan's jaw shifted—defensive, maybe. Protective. Catherine didn't miss it.
"She's confident," he said simply.
Catherine tilted her head, offering a soft smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Confidence and experience aren't interchangeable, Ethan. You know that."
She let the silence stretch a little, watching his face for any flicker of doubt. Nothing yet. Fine. She leaned in, her manicured fingers resting on the glossy surface of the desk, just inches from his hand.
"I've spent months nurturing that relationship," she said, quieter now, as if revealing something personal.
"Discreet check-ins, dinners with his chief counsel, even his assistant's birthday party—don't ask.
If Scarlett's having trouble locking him down, I can help.
Discreetly. It's about what's best for the company, right? "
Ethan's eyes didn't move from hers. They were unreadable, but there was something there—something simmering just beneath the surface.
"She doesn't need help," he said finally without looking at her.
Catherine blinked, momentarily thrown. "She... doesn't?"
"No," he said, slowly setting his pen aside. "Because she's already closed the deal."
The air between them seemed to freeze. Catherine felt her spine straighten, her carefully arranged features momentarily faltering before she recovered.
"What?"
Ethan nodded, calmly, like he was confirming something mundane. "You heard me. Scarlett landed it."
A flash of heat bloomed in Catherine's chest—rage, disbelief, something primal. She fought to keep her expression neutral, but the smile she forced was brittle, hollow. "She actually met with him?"
"Not just met. Convinced him," Ethan said, turning back to the papers on his desk. "The contract's nearly done."
He didn't look up. Didn't offer her the comfort of eye contact.
Silence.
Catherine stood, the scrape of her skirt barely audible over the roar in her ears. "I see."
Ethan gave a small nod. "If there's nothing else..."
She hesitated, heart pounding behind her ribcage. There was so much she wanted to say—about loyalty, about wasted effort, about being sidelined for a woman who wasn't half the strategist she was.
But Ethan was already back to work. Dismissed her like an afterthought.
She turned without another word, the soft sound of her heels muted now—no longer sharp, no longer commanding.
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
And inside, Ethan's pen began to move again.