3. Vivienne
Vivienne
"I'm just saying the concept feels a little... feminine."
I stare at Derek Thompson across the conference table, his words hanging in the air like toxic fumes. Four years at this firm, and this crap still happens.
"Feminine," I repeat, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Do tell me, Derek, what's feminine about a campaign targeting women who make up seventy percent of Lumina's customer base?"
Derek adjusts his tie—Hermès, probably bought with Daddy's money—and exchanges smirks with Mitchell from finance. "No need to get emotional, Vivienne. I'm thinking about the broader appeal. We don't want to alienate potential male customers."
"Right," I say, shuffling my presentation materials with deliberate calm. "Because men will feel deeply threatened by our 'Break the Mold' concept that celebrates women who defy beauty standards while still wearing makeup."
Laughter ripples around the table. Derek's face flushes.
"I just think—" he starts.
"The numbers," I interrupt, sliding printouts across the table. "Focus groups showed this concept resonated with eighty-three percent of participants. It produced a sixty-seven percent intent-to-purchase response, which is twenty points higher than Lumina's previous campaign."
My team lead, Samantha, nods in support. "The ROI projections are solid. This could be transformative for Lumina."
"If we're lucky," Derek mutters, "they'll still be our client after the Clarke family dinner tonight."
My head snaps up. "Excuse me?"
He feigns innocence. "Oh, you didn't know? Your father is hosting Gerald Lumina for dinner. Apparently, there's some discussion about Fischer & Sons potentially taking over the account."
Ice slides down my spine. Fischer & Sons. My father's old friend's agency.
"That's strange," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden pounding in my chest. "Considering Gerald told me just last week how excited he was about our direction."
"Things change." Derek shrugs, not bothering to hide his smug smile. "Maybe they want a... different perspective."
By "different," he means male, preferably over fifty, and completely out of touch with Lumina's target demographic. I clench my fist under the table, refusing to let him see my anger.
"Well, until I hear otherwise from Gerald himself, we're proceeding as planned." I stand, gathering my materials. "I expect everyone's sections of the pitch deck by the end of the day tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Derek salutes mockingly.
I ignore him, striding out of the conference room with my head high and fury simmering beneath my professional veneer. The moment I'm in my office, I close the door and grab my phone.
Laura answers on the second ring. "Let me guess, Derek's being a misogynistic ass again?"
"How did you know?" I collapse into my chair.
"It's Tuesday." Her voice holds a smile. "What did Trust Fund Boy do this time?"
"Suggested my campaign was too 'feminine.' Oh, and dropped the bomb that my father is hosting the Lumina CEO for dinner tonight. Apparently, Fischer & Sons is trying to poach my account."
Laura's sharp intake of breath tells me everything. "Your father wouldn't—"
"You know damn well he would." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I've been working on this account for eighteen months. Our numbers are stellar. There's no business reason to switch agencies unless someone's pulling strings."
"What are you going to do?"
I glance at the clock. "Crash a dinner party, apparently."
"Want backup?"
"No, this is something I need to handle myself." I stand, resolve hardening. "But I might need a drink afterward."
"I'll have wine standing by. Kick ass, Clarke."
After ending the call, I pull up my email and find exactly what I expected: no invitation to tonight's dinner from either of my parents. I was deliberately left out, which means they're absolutely up to something.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a flurry of meetings and email exchanges.
By six, I've armed myself with every performance metric, client testimonial, and ROI projection for the Lumina account.
I head home to change, opting for a navy blue sheath dress that says "professional" but still fits the dress code for my parents' formal dining room.
The Uber drops me at my parents' Park Avenue building at seven-fifteen, deliberately fifteen minutes after the cocktail hour starts. I want an audience for this conversation.
"Miss Vivienne," Henderson, the elevator attendant, greets me with surprise. "Your parents didn't mention you'd be joining them tonight."
"It was a last-minute decision," I reply with a tight smile. "Business calls."
When the elevator opens directly into my parents' penthouse foyer, I hear the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses from the living room. Taking a deep breath, I round the corner.
"Vivienne!" My mother's surprise quickly morphs into calculated pleasantness. "What an unexpected surprise."
The room holds about twenty people, all Manhattan elite, all watching the sudden drama with barely concealed interest. I spot Gerald Lumina by the fireplace, champagne in hand.
"I heard you were discussing the Lumina account," I say, crossing to him with my hand extended. "I thought I should be here, considering I'm the lead on the project."
Gerald looks uncomfortable, glancing between me and my father, who's approaching with the expression he reserves for my most inconvenient moments of independence.
"Vivienne," Father says, voice low but pleasant for the audience. "We weren't expecting you."
"Clearly." I smile at Gerald. "I brought the latest focus group results. They're extraordinary."
"Young lady," a voice interrupts from behind me. "This is hardly the venue for such discussions."
I turn to find Walter Fischer himself, founder of Fischer & Sons and my father's golfing buddy for thirty years. His presence confirms my suspicions.
"I disagree, Walter," I reply coolly. "If you're discussing taking over my account, this is exactly the venue for me to defend my work." A sudden hush falls over the room. My mother's smile tightens to the breaking point.
"Perhaps we should move this to the study," Father suggests, grip tightening on his whiskey glass.
"I'm comfortable right here," I counter. "Gerald, our 'Break the Mold' concept tested beyond projections with your target demographic. Women ages twenty-five to forty-five responded particularly strongly to the authenticity of the messaging."
Gerald shifts uncomfortably. "Yes, I recall the presentation. Very impressive."
"Which makes me wonder why we're discussing a potential agency change when we're on track to deliver Lumina's most successful campaign in years."
Walter Fischer clears his throat. "With all due respect, Vivienne, sometimes fresh eyes—"
"Fresh?" I laugh. "Your firm hasn't updated its approach to women's marketing since 1992. No offense, but your last beauty campaign featured a woman in a bikini for a face cream ad."
Walter's face flushes. "Henry," he appeals to my father, "perhaps you should control your daughter."
"That's exactly the problem," I say before Father can respond. "You think I need controlling. You think my ideas are too 'feminine.' But Lumina's customers are predominantly women, and guess what? They're tired of being marketed to by men who don't understand them."
I turn back to Gerald, whose expression has shifted from discomfort to interest.
"Our concept resonates because it's authentic. It's disruptive not for shock value but because it reflects what women actually want to see. The ROI projections speak for themselves."
A slow clap breaks the tension. My head whips around to the source, and my heart skips a beat.
Jaxon Hart stands at the entrance to the living room with a dark suit perfectly tailored and an unreadable expression. Next to him is an older man I recognize as his manager.
"Apologies for the interruption," Jaxon says, his deep voice cutting through the awkward silence. "Gerald mentioned there was a dinner tonight. I didn't realize we were walking into a corporate showdown."
"Jaxon!" Gerald moves forward, relief evident. "So glad you could make it. You know Henry Clarke, of course."
My father steps forward, all business now. "Hart. Didn't expect to see you tonight."
"Last-minute invitation," Jaxon replies, eyes finding mine. Recognition flares, followed by something that might be amusement. "Ms. Clarke and I have met."
"At the Children's Hospital Benefit," I confirm, heart suddenly racing. In the light of day, he's even more striking than I remembered. "You changed your shirt."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Hazard of standing too close to you, apparently."
The room's attention pivots to this unexpected exchange, gossip practically vibrating in the air. My mother steps in smoothly.
"Mr. Hart, we're delighted you could join us. Gerald mentioned you might be interested in Lumina's men's line expansion."
"Among other things," Jaxon replies, gaze still locked with mine.
For a moment, I'm transported back to the charity gala, to the electric current that passed between us before I remembered his connection to my past.
Andrew. My college boyfriend. The one who cheated on me broke my heart, then married someone else a year later—Jaxon's brother.
The room seems to fall away as understanding passes between us. He knows who I am to Andrew. I know who he was to Andrew. And somehow, in this moment, that shared connection feels like a live wire.
"Vivienne was just leaving," my father announces, breaking the spell. "She has an early meeting tomorrow."
"Actually," I counter, finding my voice, "I was invited to discuss the Lumina account, which I'm leading. Unless there's been some change, I'm not aware of?"
Gerald clears his throat. "Henry suggested we might consider alternative perspectives, but I'd like to see your final presentation before making any decisions."
"My daughter is very passionate," Father says with a tight smile. "Sometimes too much so for her own good."