Page 17 of Savage Suit
The opening door reflected in the gleaming window I stood in front of, revealing W. White Leman. He’d worked in the company for decades. I’d never known what his first name was. As a child, I’d referred to him as Lemon, an easier pronunciation of his French-sounding surname.
I turned.
“They’re here,” he announced.
Folding my arms, I leaned against the wall while he glanced into the hallway and nodded. Six men of various heights and ages walked in, dressed like Lemon and me in custom-made suits worn with the knowledge of our privilege. The absence of Channing Powers, one of their executives, relieved me. Fifteen years my senior, he was a fuckhead I detested.
“Gentlemen.” I indicated the oval-shaped table with room for ten. This room was where my mother met with the Amage brothers, so I’d chosen it for nostalgia’s sake. “Please, have a seat. My presentation will not take long. Afterward, we’ll enjoy a light lunch.”
Sacha, the perfumer of the family, was the first to sit. He glanced at the folder in front of him, identical to those around the table for each man present. They’d received a digital copy, but I eschewed hi-tech today. What I intended to propose was personal, much more than a cold electronic file. After six and a half weeks, we were face-to-face. The company’s president, Boyd Andrews, had agreed to a meeting. Even that snake, Channing Powers, voted to hear me out. It had been the Amage brothers holding out. No, not the brothers, one in particular.
As Sacha opened the folder, Leo, the second eldest, sat in his chair, found because of the nameplate in front of each seat. Hugo and Guy waited until Lemon seated himself before following suit.
Denis, slightly older than me, nodded and found his seat. Instead of sitting, he grabbed the crystal pitcher filled with ice water from the middle of the table. He took a water glass, filled it to the brim, and then sipped. Lemon returned the pitcher to its place.
Claude Amage stood in the doorway, glaring at me. There was no love lost between us. He among his brothers was the outlier, the holdout, the motherfucker who wanted to push my company out of the contract that had been ours for years. But unfortunately, he held power, owning forty percent of the shares, with the remaining brothers having ten percent. The last ten percent were split between Boyd Andrews and Channing Powers.
“Claude, sit,” I said coolly, “so I can proceed.”
His face tautened, though he walked further into the room and closed the door. “I have but fifteen minutes to spare.”
I glared. He smirked.
Lemon cleared his throat and opened his folder. “Why don’t we begin, Noah?”
Shoving my hands back into my pockets, I paced. “Keegan Media Group and Amage have had an exceptional working relationship since my mother was alive.”
Claude made the sign of the cross.“Dieu accorde le repos à son âme gracieuse.”
Yes, please, may He rest her gracious soul.
I drew in a shuddering breath, hating Claude a little more and thinking of my mother. And, for whatever fucking reason, I thought of Ryan Hagen. “This coming January, twenty years since she was killed, was meant to be a special collaboration between our companies,” I continued, my stern voice hiding the emotions running through me. “As we briefly discussed via our teleconference, KMG can still deliver a limited-edition perfume. We can separate the fragrance from our bid for the marketing contract instead of tying the two together. My company won’t compete with a low-end smell-alike Sauncier is releasing, so you would end the partnership.”
“Are you insane?” Claude demanded. “That would be a loss for us. We will share profits with Sauncier with a much higher return because the development of the end product is less costly.”
“It is cheap,” I said flatly. “Made so because of inferior ingredients, cheap packaging, and little marketing. They don’t have the fucking right to release anything to mark the solemn occasion.”
Claude offered a small smile. “Monsieur Dorset knew Réjane for many years. She was his friend.”
“She ismymother,” I snapped.
“Was,ami,” Claude corrected, feigning sympathy.
“The fact she is no longer with us doesn’t negate her relationship with me. She will be my mother forever.”
“As she will always be my friend,” Claude returned, his smirk so infuriating I had to gnash my teeth together to keep my temper in check. His eyes gleamed. “Pity for you, Shawn’s involvement in the negotiations for your brainchild, oui?”
Denis shifted in his seat. “Your father was not as sold on the idea as you.”
My pulse thumped in a fast rhythm. “Sold or not, I never agreed with allowing Amage’s exclusivity. He allowed a clause for your benefit without securing the same benefit for us.” The terms of the contract tied my hands. I couldn’t take my idea to a composition house for development. My father had reasoned we had a relationship with the House of Amage. They had an in-house perfumer, and their name also had worldwide recognition. Overhauling our telecommunications subsidiary had immersed me, so I overlooked a lot. “I trusted my father’s judgment of allowing Dorset to oversee the project with my attention focused elsewhere.”
“What choice did you have?” Claude demanded. “You know nothing of fragrances.”
“I wrote the brief,” I reminded him.
“It means nothing,” he retorted. “You had a few paltry ideas, a scent here and there, a name, but nothing else. Who would this thing of yours appeal to? How would we draw customers?Wherewould we sell it?”
“It was supposed to be sold in your boutiques and marketed to your customers.”
