Chapter 176 Let's Talk Over Dinner
The three of them stepped into the conference room together.
The door closed. Vincent moved fast.
"Shipment got flagged at the border," he said, voice low and urgent. "Customs found twelve grams of methamphetamine. Hidden in a bag of rock sugar."
Federal law was clear—ten to fifty grams meant three years minimum. Mandatory sentencing. No exceptions.
Ethan sat down, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The flame cast shadows across his face. He took a drag, eyes narrowing as smoke curled between his fingers. "Who handled that shipment?"
"Evan," Justin said, stepping forward. "Night before pickup, he hooked up with some woman. No ID, no background. We think she planted it."
Ethan's gaze sharpened. "You find her?"
Vincent nodded. "Instagram model. Low-tier influencer. She'd racked up a couple hundred thousand in cosmetic surgery debt. Day after she slept with Evan, all of it—gone. Paid in full."
"Trace it."
"We tried." Vincent's jaw tightened. "Someone scrubbed her digital footprint clean. Professional job. Whoever's backing her has serious resources."
Ethan tapped ash into the tray. His voice stayed flat. "You and Justin fly to Myitkyina. Route through Inyo. Go see Gareth Kane."
Gareth Kane controlled the Kane family empire out of Inyo—old money, deep political ties. But his real leverage came from his uncle, who commanded the Kachin Independence Army along the Myanmar border. In those borderlands, that kind of muscle opened every door.
Myitkyina was Kachin State's capital. Without military backing, you got nowhere.
Justin straightened. "Understood."
He paused. "You heading back to LA, or coming with us?"
Ethan crushed the cigarette. "You two can handle it. I've got business here. I'll meet Gareth in Inyo later."
Vincent smirked. "So you're going after—"
Ethan's eyes cut to him. Cold. Sharp.
Vincent shut up.
"It's not a crisis," Ethan said, voice even. "Just seized cargo. But whoever set this up—" He leaned back, fingers drumming once against the armrest. "Find them."
Vincent's expression went serious. "You don't even need to say it. I'll dig them out."
Ethan stood. "Good. Pack light. Move fast."
---
Three hours later, Ethan walked through the glass doors of a mid-rise building in downtown New York. Atelier Rose occupied the twelfth floor—exposed brick, industrial lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Arts District.
He'd reviewed Walter's report on the flight. The studio was doing well. Frank Miller had built a solid reputation—boutique fashion house, exclusive clients, limited runs. Their upcoming Mythos Collection was already generating buzz.
Olivia Reed was listed as Lead Designer.
The elevator doors opened. A young receptionist looked up, eyes widening.
"I'm here to see Frank Miller," Ethan said. His voice was calm, but his presence filled the space. "Tell him Ethan Bennett wants to discuss an investment opportunity."
She fumbled for the phone.
Two minutes later, Frank Miller appeared—late forties, wire-rimmed glasses, expensive but understated suit. He extended a hand, smile bright.
"Mr. Bennett. This is unexpected."
Ethan shook briefly. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all." Frank gestured toward a sleek conference room. "Please."
---
The room had low brown leather sofas. Ethan took the seat farthest from the door, one arm draped over the armrest, the other resting on his knee. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against his leg.
Frank busied himself with a high-end capsule coffee machine—still in its box. He tore through packaging, installed the reservoir, loaded a capsule, brewed espresso. Then he poured it into a minimalist white cup and set it down carefully with both hands.
"Mr. Bennett. Please."
Ethan nodded once. He lifted the cup, blew gently, took a sip.
Frank sat across from him, hands folded. "What kind of collection interests you?"
"Vintage-inspired."
Frank's smile held. "We haven't done large-scale vintage before. But if the budget supports it, we're willing."
"Money's not an issue."
Frank's smile widened. "Perfect. What era? Fifties? Sixties?"
Ethan's mouth curved slightly. "Not historically accurate. Speculative. Borrowing elements, remixing. Like costume dramas."
Frank's internal alarm went off. That's not vintage. That's fantasy.
But he wasn't going to say that.
"Interesting approach," he said smoothly. "Do you have a design direction, or should we develop concepts?"
"You have a design team." Ethan's tone stayed casual. "Let them handle it. Send sketches when ready."
Frank nodded slowly. This isn't about clothes.
"We'll create something that exceeds expectations."
Ethan took another sip. His eyes stayed on Frank. "How do you know what I want if you haven't asked?"
Frank blinked.
"You don't know what I'm looking for," Ethan continued. "So how can you guarantee satisfaction?"
Frank hesitated. "Then... what are you looking for?"
Ethan set the cup down.
"I want your lead designer to pitch this herself."
---
The Mythos Collection had been greenlit months ago—Vincent Crawford backing it, Atelier Rose handling everything from concept to runway.
Frank ran business and branding. Sophie Taylor managed day-to-day operations. Olivia set creative direction, signed off on key pieces, stationed assistants to handle last-minute tweaks.
The show was two days out. October 28th.
Frank had consulted astrologers and triple-checked venue availability. Fashion people were superstitious about debuts.
---
After the last collection wrapped, Olivia finally had breathing room. She'd pulled her core team together to research next season's inspiration.
They stood around the mood board—sketches, swatches, palettes overlapping—when Frank's assistant appeared.
"Olivia? Frank needs you in the conference room."
She handed off her marker, gave quick notes, and followed.
---
She pushed open the door.
And stopped.
Ethan Bennett sat on the brown sofa, legs crossed, one arm along the backrest. Black wool coat, dark jeans. A travel bag sat beside him.
Her chest tightened.
She forced a brief nod. Polite. Distant.
Frank stood. "Olivia, this is Mr. Bennett. He's interested in a speculative vintage line. Thought you'd be best to discuss specifics."
"Of course," she said. Voice steady.
Frank glanced between them—picked up on something—and cleared his throat. "I'll leave you to it."
He walked out.
The door clicked.
---
Olivia sat across from him. Posture straight. Hands folded.
"If you have clear direction," she said, "share it directly. We'll work within scope. If you're exploring, we'll draft a proposal. If it's not right, we revise."
Ethan leaned back. Relaxed. He held a glass of water, fingers trailing the rim. It hummed faintly.
Olivia's eyes flicked to his hand.
The movement felt deliberate.
She looked away.
Ethan sipped slowly, set the glass down, leaned forward. Elbows on thighs. Gaze locked on her.
"I usually do business over a meal," he said. Casual. "You free for dinner? We can cover details then."
Her pulse kicked.
She kept her face neutral.
"Mr. Bennett, if this is about the collection, we can discuss here. I have the portfolio—"
"I prefer restaurants." His tone didn't shift. Still calm. "Helps me think. Keeps things..." He paused. "Relaxed."
He tilted his head slightly.
"So. You free?"