Page 71 of Unbind

I glance up at Adam. ‘This isn’t all yours, is it?’

He laughs at the awe on my face. ‘Welcome to Wright Holdings’ European headquarters.’

It makes sense, I suppose. I know he’s worth billions. There have to be some seriously large businesses supporting that valuation. But still—holy crap.

‘Nice,’ I mutter, and he laughs again, taking my hand.

‘Come on.’

A huge man waves us through the revolving doors at the front of the building with a grin. Once inside, Adam shakes his hand and greets him by name, asking after his family. The lobby we find ourselves in is enormous—all glass walls and gleaming white floors and low white sofas.

The air is thick with the smell of the oversized floral displays that punctuate the huge space, and I spot perfectly fanned piles of glossy magazines on the coffee table as I walk past, featuring everything from Architectural Digest tothe current French Vogue. The coffee table itself is at odds with the perfect whiteness of everything else. It’s hewn from a lustrous, irregular-shaped piece of wood—olive or eucalyptus, maybe—that adds warmth and character to the otherwise intimidating space.

If the rent on my tiny Soho studio cripples me each month, then I can’t compute the cost of this vast lobby that just exists without any real function beyond setting the tone for visitors to or associates of Adam’s businesses.

We pass an immense white marble reception desk with waterfall ends that probably houses a row of immaculate blond receptionists during the working week but is now empty save for another security guard. When we reach the bank of lifts, I cast my eye up the companies listed for each floor.

‘Are all your companies based here?’ I ask him.

‘Depends. Everything I’ve founded or want to keep a close eye on—our friend Vega most definitely included—is here.’ I giggle at that. ‘But if I buy companies as a going concern, then I tend to leave them where they are unless they’re in dire need of restructuring.

‘We’ve acquired a handful of luxury office furniture brands in Milan and Amsterdam. OfficeScape was throwing so much business their way that it made sense to bring them in house and improve their cost efficiencies, but it also made sense to leave their manufacturing bases where they were.’

‘What else do you own?’ Omar Vega I know about, obviously. I’m also familiar with Elysian, a beautiful high-end yoga brand focused on technical fabrics in statement prints.

‘Soft luxury, mainly. We own Whitechapel Leathers, though their production is all in the East End, and Obsidian, which does luxury leather tech accessories. When we bring them all under the same roof’—he holds an ID cardto the scanner and presses the button for the lift—‘we can make vast improvements. Obsidian and Whitechapel now share the same suppliers, and all our companies use the same centralised HR and accountancy functions. Little things like that can slash a tonne of cost.’

He may think of them aslittle things, but they’re not. They’re huge efficiencies. Not only is Gossamer’s cost of goods sky high, but we have lots of fixed costs, like our book keeper and audit firm, that are far bulkier line items on our P&L than our top line warrants.

It sounds like a dream.

‘Do you want to go straight to Vega?’ he asks as we enter the lift.

‘Sure. But I want to see your office later, too.’ Now that we’re here, I’m getting greedy. I want to sniff into every corner of Adam’s empire; I want to breathe in the air of success that he and his thousands of employees do; I want to spend a couple of hours feeling steeped in the abundance mindset that is so infectious in places like this.

And I want, on a less professional note, to see where my super hot new fuck buddy sits and runs that empire. Because if I find Adam attractive right now, in his jeans and gorgeous cream sweater, I might just die if I get a glimpse of him in CEO mode.

‘Sure thing,’ he says easily, pressing the button for the tenth and final floor. When we step out of the lift, I’m positively dazzled with the natural light that’s pouring in. Victoria isn’t an area overrun with high-rises, so at this height, Vega’s studio is bathed in uninterrupted winter sunlight.

The smug, high-maintenance twat even has first dibs on our limited supply of sunshine, for fuck’s sake.

Once my eyes adjust, what strikes me most about thisspace is that, unlike our poky studio, this vast floor in this fancy building is designed as much with beauty in mind as much as function. I’m certain, given Adam’s background, that every inch has been designed to be productive and commercial and ergonomic and all the rest.

But, categoricallyunlikeGossamer’s shabby home, there’s nothing utilitarian about this space. Every detail has been carefully plotted to provide inspiration and wellbeing to the fortunate people who spend their days here.

The floor is white and gleaming, as are the tops of every desk and cutting table I can see. The only items on display are items that aresupposedto be on display: the sleek iMacs, the perfect tiles of framed campaign shots on the walls, and the draping mannequins.

Oh dear lord, the mannequins.

I drift forward without quite realising it, drawn to a linen-covered one wearing a half-finished sheath dress. The entire thing is crafted from ultra-fine horizontal strips of scarlet satin, their perfectly frayed edges softening what could be a severe silhouette. It’s breathtaking in the flawlessness of its execution. I run a reverent hand over the hundreds of thin bands, appreciating how the satin flutters under my touch.

‘Like it?’ Adam says from behind me.

I turn to see that it’s me he’s appraising, hands in his pockets, and not the craftsmanship in front of us.

‘It’s perfect,’ I tell him.

‘Go on.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the vast space to our right. ‘Have a snoop. I won’t tell.’

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