Damian
Fifteen minutes of waiting, and the thrill still feels as fresh as when I first walked in here. The air is tight with sharp unease. Good.
Even Gilmore, founder and creative director of L'Etoile Noir, has already succumbed to my presence. My assistant, Marcus, had scheduled the meeting for four. But after the intel I'd received about his lead designer leaving the premises, I'd decided on an early arrival.
The look on his face when I walked in was worth it. Spooked. Jittery. Distraught.
"Mr. Visconti! What an honor..." Gilmore had extended a sweaty palm. "We weren't expecting you until four. Please, come in, come in. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? We have an excellent espresso machine..."
I'd ignored him, walking straight into his fashion house. He'd understood quickly enough to shut up and lead the way.
Fifteen minutes later, we're still in his office, waiting for his lead designer to show up.
I settle into Gilmore's chair. The cheap leather creaks beneath me, scuffed, worn at the arms. Pathetic. Gilmore had expected me to take the guest seat across from his desk. Now he can't sit still in it, shifting his weight every few seconds like a child awaiting punishment.
I swirl the untouched coffee in my hand, watching him over the rim. Usually, I keep people waiting. Never the other way around.
But for her...
My grip tightens around the cup. My jaw clenches.
For her, Mila Thorne, I can make an exception. She's going to be mine within hours. I glance at my platinum watch. Unless she's as stubborn as her father, she'll have no choice but to accept.
Gilmore is blathering again, his voice grating against my patience. My assistant, Marcus, stands silently by the door, arms crossed, taking mental notes. I let the fool talk, tuning him out until he finally mentions something useful.
"...our most outstanding collection so far. The Spring-Autumn line sold out in three weeks." Pride creeps into his voice. "The vision was to capture..."
"Was this created by your lead designer, Mila Thorne?"
The name tastes like bile on my tongue. I lean forward, setting down the cup of coffee, still untouched, now cold.
Gilmore's gaze follows my movement before returning to my face. He swallows, a subtle tell I would have missed if I weren't watching the nervous tension building in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against the armrest.
"All our designs result from collaborative efforts," he says, clearing his throat. "But the overall creative direction came from me."
A hint of a smirk crosses my lips.
Gilmore mistakes it for approval. His shoulders ease slightly, hope flickering across his face. Fool. He keeps blathering, trying to fill the silence, unaware he's already lost.
I reach for the magazine beside me, counting the seconds. My intel confirmed she left Echelon Medical Center minutes ago. She should be here any moment. I flip through the pages, stopping at the Spring-Autumn Collection spread.
Mila Thorne is the brain behind L'Etoile Noir's designs, yet Gilmore's name is stamped on every collection, every interview, every accolade. Sly bastard. All he does is run appearances for L'Etoile Noir. He doesn't have a single clue about the intricacies of fashion, the construction, the artistry, the vision.
One design stops me cold.
An eighteenth-century lattice corset, reimagined in modern silk and structure. And there she is—modeling it herself. The photograph captures her in three-quarter profile, her face turned slightly away from the camera, dark hair swept over one bare shoulder. The corset fits her like a second skin, intricate lacework spanning her torso like delicate armor.
I clench my jaw.
The more I stare, the less I see Mila. Only Arthur, his features reflected in hers, the same sharp cheekbones, the same proud tilt of the chin. Her father's face steals whatever light she might have had, whatever shine could have been hers alone.
Arthur Thorne.
CEO of Thorne Global Group.
The man who destroyed my family.
I'd almost considered using his eldest daughter, Sophia Thorne, as my pawn for revenge, but Mila proved more convenient. The disowned Thorne. Buried under insurmountable problems. Arthur's golden jewel, though he'd never admit it. It's no secret he prefers Mila to Sophia. Where Sophia is all beauty and composure, Mila is all of that plus brain and fire.
Curious that Arthur still pays for her security detail. Even disowned, she's still his daughter.
Still his weakness.
My phone vibrates against the desk. I check the screen.
Another update from my men.
Target now at L'Etoile Noir building.
I lean back, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Showtime.
"I must say, Mr. Visconti, we're thrilled about the possibility of partnering with Visconti Imperium," Gilmore continues, oblivious. "Your fashion division's expansion into haute couture is the talk of the industry..."
"Where is she?"
I shut the magazine with a decisive snap.
Marcus straightens beside the door.
Gilmore blinks, his rehearsed pitch dying mid-sentence. "I'm sorry?"
"Mila Thorne. Your lead designer. Where is she?"
He laughs nervously, tugging at his collar. "Ah... Miss Thorne had a... personal emergency. Family matter. She'll be here by four, I assure you..."
"Your lead designer is late to the most important meeting of your career, Mr. Gilmore." I let the words hang in the air, cold and precise. "Tell me, is this the standard of professionalism at L'Etoile Noir?"
He fidgets with his fingers, knuckles white. "She's usually reliable, Mr. Visconti, I assure you..."
"Two minutes."
I adjust my cufflinks, platinum, engraved with the Visconti crest, and meet his eyes.
"That's how long you have left until my kindness expires."
---
Gilmore goes pale. He clears his throat, mumbles something incoherent, and excuses himself, practically stumbling out of his own office.
Good.
I take the opportunity to pull out my phone, skimming through business emails. Partnering with a small startup like L'Etoile Noir isn't remotely on my radar. Gilmore is delusional to imagine I'd ever invest a single cent into his mediocre operation.
My plan is simple: lure Mila into my world, secure her compliance, and once that's accomplished, my business with L'Etoile Noir will reach its demise before it even begins.
Nearly two minutes pass. I flex my fingers against the armrest, straightening my watch.
Mila should be here any second now.
The door bursts open right on cue.
Marcus steps aside as Gilmore rushes in, slightly out of breath, with Mila Thorne right behind him. She's disheveled, mascara smudged beneath red-rimmed eyes, dark hair falling loose from whatever style she'd attempted this morning. Her blouse is wrinkled, her chest rising and falling as though she's been running.
Perfect.
"She's here, Mr. Visconti," Gilmore announces, chuckling nervously as he positions himself in front of her like a shield. "Just in time."
"You're late." I glance at my watch deliberately. "By three minutes."
Marcus steps forward, his timing impeccable. "Mr. Visconti, you have a meeting scheduled at four-fifteen with the Sinclair board."
Convenient. I'd been planning to cancel that meeting anyway, but now it serves a better purpose.
Gilmore's eyes widen in panic. "Mr. Visconti, our apologies for keeping you waiting. If you could just give us..."
I rise to my feet, addressing Marcus as though Gilmore has ceased to exist.
Mila steps around Gilmore, her jaw set with desperate determination. Her hazel eyes lock onto mine, unflinching despite the exhaustion written across her face.
"Please don't hold this against L'Etoile Noir, Mr. Visconti," she says, her voice steadier than I expected. "This is entirely my fault. I was the one who made you wait, not Gilmore. If you give us just five minutes of your time, we'll do our very best to please you." She pauses, lifting her chin slightly. "We hold you in very high esteem, sir. I assure you, none of this was intentional."
Her words send a flicker of satisfaction through me.
We'll do our very best to please you.
Oh, Mila. You're the only one I need to please me. Not L'Etoile Noir.
"Sir, we're running late," Marcus says, his tone professional but insistent.
I button my suit jacket, walking toward the door without another glance at Gilmore. His features tighten with barely suppressed fury. I can practically feel his desire to unleash his frustration on Mila the moment I leave.
I pause in the doorway, adjusting my cufflinks one last time before turning back.
"Eight PM. Tonight. Only Ms Thorne"
Mila's breath catches.
"Later than that," I continue, my voice cold and deliberate, "and you can kiss my partnership goodbye."
I leave without waiting for a response, Marcus falling into step behind me.
Her gratitude echoes down the corridor, desperate and relieved.
"Thank you, Mr. Visconti! Thank you so much. We won't let you down!"
Oh, Mila. Don't thank me.
If only she knew what my intentions were, I'd be the last man on earth she'd want to thank.
"Cancel my meeting with Sinclair," I tell Marcus once we're outside, the cool afternoon air hitting my face. "Don't give any explanation."
"Yes, Mr. Visconti." He opens the passenger door for me, his expression neutral.
I slide into the back seat of the car, leaning back against the leather as the door closes.
Four hours.
In four hours, Mila Thorne will walk into my trap.
And Arthur Thorne's downfall will finally begin.