chapter 91
Elena's POV:
Through the frosted glass, I could make out two figures facing each other across a table, their body language tense.
Susan's voice carried clearly now: "—simply not feasible given the circumstances—"
"You can’t treat me like this. " Vivienne's interruption was shrill with desperation."I've almost recovered!"
"Vivienne, please." Susan's tone held the weary patience of someone who'd been having this conversation for far too long.
"The decision has already been made. We need to finalize the new arrangement today. I'm sorry, but this comes from above my level."
"Susan, please—"
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Vivienne. You know I've always respected your work, but my hands are tied."
There was a moment of charged silence, then the sharp click of heels moving rapidly toward the door.
I barely had time to step back before it flew open.
Vivienne burst through like a force of nature, her face flushed with rage and humiliation.
The moment our eyes met, her expression underwent a rapid transformation—shock, recognition, then a strange stillness that made the air between us crackle with tension.
I found myself studying her face with an intensity that surprised me. Something was different about her features, though I couldn't immediately place what had changed.
The lighting in the hallway cast shadows that seemed to accentuate certain angles while softening others, creating an effect that was both familiar and unsettling.
When Vivienne noticed my scrutiny, her hand twitched as if she wanted to cover her face, but she forced it back to her side with visible effort.
"You again," she said, her voice dripping with a venom that seemed forced. "Is there anywhere in this city where I won't have to see your face?"
"Trust me, I'm not exactly thrilled about running into you either," I replied, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice.
Her eyes flashed with something dangerous, and she took a step closer, though I noticed she angled her face away from the overhead lighting. "Mark my words," she hissed, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms. "One day, I'll take back everything that belongs to me. Everything."
The irony of her words—accusing me of theft when she'd built her entire career on my creations—struck me with such force that I actually laughed.
A laugh escaped me—short, sharp, and utterly without humor.
"Funny, that's exactly what I was going to say." I met her gaze directly, no longer the cowering stepsister she'd grown accustomed to pushing around. "But here's the difference between us, Vivienne. When I say it, we both know I'm talking about things that actually belong to me."
"I'm established in the fragrance world now, with my own reputation, my own connections. And Madame Flower?" I paused, letting the name of her—my—most famous creation hang in the air between us. "I will be taking that back. Consider this your warning."
The muscles in her jaw worked furiously, as if she were physically chewing on the words she wanted to spit at me. But she recovered quickly, straightening her spine and tossing her hair back with practiced ease.
"We'll see about that," she said, though the words lacked their usual bite.
She swept past me toward the elevators, her heels clicking against the marble floor with mechanical precision.
I watched her go, noting the slight stiffness in her movements, the way she held her neck at an angle that seemed designed to present only her best side to any potential observers.
"Elena!" Susan's voice drew my attention back to the conference room.
She stood in the doorway, her professional smile not quite reaching her eyes, which still held traces of whatever storm had just passed. "I'm so sorry you had to witness that. Please, come in."
I followed her into the elegantly appointed room, my mind still processing the strange encounter.
As Susan gestured for me to take a seat, I couldn't help but ask, " Was Vivienne—was she the person you originally intended to work with?"
Susan's expression tightened almost imperceptibly before she smoothed it back into professional neutrality.
"There were some preliminary discussions," she admitted, settling into her own chair with a grace that spoke of years navigating corporate politics. "But circumstances have changed rather dramatically. Vivienne recently underwent some... cosmetic procedures that haven't yielded the desired results. The healing process has been complicated, and frankly, she's no longer in a position to fulfill the requirements of a brand ambassadorship."
The pieces suddenly clicked into place—the strange shadows on Vivienne's face, her unnatural stiffness, the way she'd reacted when I'd studied her features.
"She had work done on her face?" I asked, unable to keep the shock from my voice.
"Fillers, from what I understand," Susan said with a sigh. "Unfortunately, she went to a back-alley clinic. There was a severe allergic reaction after the procedure, and it's taken considerable time and treatment just to get her to where she is now."
I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy mixed with frustration.
"She really didn't need to do any of that," I said quietly, shaking my head. " She was already striking."
Susan agreed, her tone gentle but firm. "But need and want are very different things in our world, aren't they? Now, shall we discuss the future instead of dwelling on the past?"
The transition was smooth, professional, and I gratefully followed her lead.
We spent the next two hours going through the contract details, discussing marketing strategies, and exploring how my pregnancy might be incorporated into the campaign timeline.
Susan was thorough but not pushy, clearly experienced in working with creative talents who might have their own vision for how their work should be presented.
After the paperwork was signed and sealed, she offered to give me a tour of the facilities.
The Maison Lucent offices were a study in understated luxury—all clean lines, natural light, and carefully curated art pieces that suggested both tradition and innovation.
The testing rooms were particularly impressive, with their climate-controlled environments and specialized equipment for evaluating fragrances under various conditions.
"We'd like to do a brief camera test, if you're amenable," Susan suggested as we reached the studio floor. "Nothing extensive, just to see how you photograph in our standard lighting setup. For the print campaigns, you understand."
I agreed, though the thought of being in front of cameras made me more nervous than I cared to admit.
The photographer was kind and patient, directing me through simple poses while chattering about the weather and asking about my pregnancy in a way that felt genuinely interested rather than intrusive.
When he showed me the test shots on his camera's display screen, I hardly recognized myself—the woman in the images looked confident, serene, every inch the successful artist I was still learning to be.
"Perfect," Susan declared, appearing at my shoulder to review the images. "You have a natural presence, Elena. The camera loves you."
She tapped one of the images with a manicured nail, nodding with satisfaction.
"We'll be announcing the new series and our brand ambassador online tonight. The PR department is already preparing the posts."
My stomach fluttered with a mixture of excitement and nerves. "Tonight? That's quite soon."
"Strike while the iron is hot," Susan said with a knowing smile. "After Metamorphosis selling out in an hour, everyone's watching to see what you'll do next. This announcement will give them their answer."