3. PR Synergy #2
I watched their eyes. The shift was instantaneous. Naomi’s posture straightened. The relaxed, lazy slope of her shoulders disappeared as her gaze locked onto the idea, bright and hungry. Warren tilted his head, the sudden focus in his eyes telling me he was already tallying the profits.
“We already have the supply chain infrastructure from the spring collection,” Warren said. He swirled his cider in a steady rhythm. “The profit margins on infant apparel are exceptional. We could repurpose the unused warehouse space for the prototypes.”
“The buyers will scramble for the narrative,” Naomi said. She leaned forward, shifting to the edge of her cushion. “A pregnant CEO designing for her own child. We could fast-track a teaser campaign. The fashion press would eat it up.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The PR synergy is built right in. And to celebrate it, I want to hire a documentary crew to film the process over the last few weeks of my pregnancy.”
The silence in the room stretched. Warren’s brow furrowed. He blinked, the eager momentum leaving his posture. I knew exactly what he was thinking: cameras ruined his timeline.
“A documentary?” Warren asked. He leaned forward and set his glass on the coffee table. “Juniper, that’s a massive undertaking. Are you sure you want cameras in your face right now?”
He wanted to protect his alibi. He needed the house completely isolated so he could stage my suicide without witnesses. I met his gaze, beaming with blind, adoring trust. I had to pitch the project not as a threat, but as a stage.
“It’s not about me, Warren,” I said. “It’s about us.”
He hesitated, the greed already outweighing his caution.
“I want them to see how incredibly supportive you’ve been,” I continued. “And how much Naomi has helped build this brand.”
Naomi’s chin lifted, the stiff tension leaving her shoulders the moment I offered her the spotlight. She glanced at Warren, a silent message passing between them as the idea took root. I kept my voice sweet and steady, feeding their colossal egos.
“You both have so much on-camera experience from your acting days,” I said. “You would be the perfect faces for the brand. I want them to capture our teamwork.”
Warren sat up straighter. The failed actor in him could not resist the spotlight. I smiled over the rim of my glass, holding the trap wide open.
“I want to document our family launching this huge new era.”
Warren glanced across the coffee table at Naomi.
A silent look passed between them in the stifling warmth of the living room.
Naomi leaned forward on the beige cushions.
The warm lamplight caught the edge of her teeth as her smile widened.
She saw a golden opportunity to claim center stage before stealing my life.
“It’s actually brilliant, Junie,” Naomi said. “We could film some segments at the design studio to show buyers where all the magic takes place.”
Warren nodded, his hands swooping through the air to frame an invisible shot. “We will need to clear the clutter from the main cutting tables. The background needs to look industrious, but curated. We can’t have loose threads and coffee cups ruining the aesthetic.”
“I can have Chloe organize the new silk swatches by tomorrow morning,” Naomi said. “We want the fabrics to pop under the studio lights. Maybe we can stage a mockup of the nursery line on the back wall.”
“That is a great visual,” Warren said. “And I’ll coordinate with the floor managers to make sure the staff looks busy when the cameras roll. We need them focused on the garments, not staring at the crew.”
I watched them plan the future of my company.
They were building their own alibi right in front of me.
A tragic widower and a supportive best friend would look much more convincing if their devotion was recorded on professional film just days before a staged suicide.
I stared down at my lap. I pressed my thumb against the crystal glass, smearing a thick line through the condensation.
“The PR synergy for a new launch like this would be off the charts,” Warren said. “It establishes an untouchable narrative for the brand.”
He shifted his weight on the upholstery, closing the small gap between us. He reached out and rested his hand over my forearm. The suffocating warmth of his palm bled through the knit fabric of my cardigan. The sudden contact made my skin crawl.
I pressed deeper into the sofa. The freezing moisture gathering against my thumb gave me something to focus on, keeping me from pulling my arm away from his grip.
“I think it’s a fantastic idea, darling,” Warren said. His voice dropped, softening into an act of hushed concern. “But I need you to promise me. You only do this if you’re well enough.”
Naomi leaned closer, resting her elbows near her knees. Her eyes grew wide with manufactured sympathy. “That’s right. We don’t want any strain on the baby. The doctor said your blood pressure needs to stay level.”
I just stared at her in the dry heat. She sat there pretending to care about the physical toll on my body while planning to steal the infant growing inside it. I maintained a bright, oblivious smile.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be extra careful.”
Warren stood up from the sofa, taking his drink with him. The sudden absence of his suffocating body heat gave me room to breathe. I squeezed the side of my own glass. The freezing moisture biting into my skin forced me to stay alert in the stifling, artificial heat.
Naomi uncrossed her legs on the opposite cushion. She leaned back, swirling her cider until the ice clinked in a lazy circle. “This is exactly what we need,” Naomi said. “A proper drink to thaw you out after that miserable car ride.”
The trap was set. Let them preen for the cameras. Let them count the money they thought they would extract from this new line. Naomi wanted the spotlight she lost years ago, and Warren wanted the fame he never achieved.
I would give them both exactly what they craved.
They would wear the microphones like badges of honor, convinced the lenses existed only to capture their brilliance.
By the time they realized the audio equipment had never stopped recording, the police would already have the tapes.
It would be far too late to take the words back.
Warren remained standing near the edge of the coffee table. He adjusted his stance, squaring his shoulders as if a camera were already trained on him. He raised his glass high enough to catch the yellow light of the table lamp.
“To the new maternity line,” Warren said. “And to the most brilliant, beautiful CEO and mother I know.”
Naomi lifted her glass, a practiced, hungry gleam shining in her eyes. “To the future. We are going to make sure this is unforgettable, Junie.”
I leaned forward. I tapped my glass against theirs. The heavy glass rang, a sustained note hovering in the dry air. I locked eyes with my husband, focusing on the sting of the wet glass in my palm to keep my expression serene.
“I know you will,” I said. “I trust you both.”
I took a slow sip of the cider. The bubbles popped against my lips, masking my revulsion. The cold base of the glass came to rest against my chest. I smiled at them over the rim of the crystal, settling into the beige cushions as the snare pulled tight.