Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Do you know what the word on the street is about House Corbin?” I ask him darkly. To his credit, he frowns but doesn’t speak. “Stale. Repetitive. Elitist. That is what I’ve communicated to Jacqueline time and time again. It’s what got her on board with this competition.” Using his own verbal habits, I drive the point home that this is happening whether he’s happy about it or not.
“Bourgeois,” he mutters.
“Pardon?” I snap, glaring at him unforgivingly.
He withers beneath my direct challenge, but judging by the way his lips are pressed so tightly together that they’re turning white, it’s with a significant effort on his part. He’s accustomed to his word being law, and in his world, that is the case. But not here. He is an investor in House Corbin, he has Jacqueline’s ear on the board, and he’s a make-or-break voice in the fashion industry.
None of that means he can decide what happens inside the walls of House Corbin. But he is a tool I can use to my advantage.
“Look,” I start, keeping my voice steady and amenable, “the world is changing and we must evolve with it. Shows like Project Runway have launched numerous respected careers, and bringing fresh ideas to House Corbin is key to continuing our relevance in fashion. Already, the Fashion Females Under 25 competition has increased our social media footprint and driven two new magazine editorials to our door.”
“Oh?” His interest is piqued by that, but I don’t gloat. Rather, I continue selling him in the hopes that he’ll speak positively to Jacqueline instead of suggesting that this is an unfortunate misstep.
“Yes. An online magazine called Haute Couture and a print piece in Vogue Italia.” I know he won’t be as impressed by the online magazine since he’s a dinosaur that grew up on thick tomes of Bazaar, but online representations are necessary with a younger market.
I’m not old, but after spending my life with Jacqueline as a stand-in pseudo-mother and working on fashion shoots before I was able to grow a proper beard, I don’t know that I was ever truly young. And if Jacqueline was ever young and carefree, the evidence has been scrubbed from existence.
Venerable looks skeptical and is about to reply when the doors bursts open and in comes a curvy woman with hair like the inside of a blood orange, who’s dressed in scanty clothing, singing in English, “There’s some hoes in this house, there’s some hoes in this house! Yeah, yeah, yeah you fucking with some wet ass pussy! Give me everything you GOT! With this wet ass—”
As she sings, she bends down, her hands on her knees and her ass bouncing. And what an ass it is . . . begging to be grabbed. Or spanked.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I demand, anger rising from the pits of my stomach. Actually, I don’t know whether to laugh at the outrageousness or to rage in fury at the inappropriate interruption.
But . . .
Her body is all sensuous curves, ripe and delectable in a way I am very much not used to seeing. In this world, where thin is perpetually in, I’ve gotten used to what the fashion media calls ‘sexy’. I’ve had supermodels draped on me, and the common man’s masturbation fantasies are now commonplace to my jaded sensibilities.
But this flame-haired vixen is something I haven’t seen in a long time. Luscious and succulent . . . although I have no idea why she was shaking her ass and singing about her wet pussy.
She freezes, shocked for a moment as she stares at me with wide eyes, her mouth agape. “I’m sorry! I stepped into the wrong room, I . . .” the woman says in strangely accented English, clearly not understanding me.
As quick as she appeared, she disappears, closing the door behind her and leaving both Venerable and me in bewildered shock.
“What was that?” Venerable demands judgmentally. “And what is going on in House Corbin, Simon?” I blink, trying to think of a single thing to say, and Venerable adds one more question I don’t have the answer to. “Why was she singing about her cat?”
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, standing. Thankfully, Venerable’s understanding of English . . . casual terms . . . is less than perfect.
Venerable sputters, “We are not finished.” As I reach the door, he calls out, “Careful, Young Corbin. You have much to learn and would do well to stay within the boundaries Jacqueline created before you were a speck in the universe.”
That is the message he came to deliver today, and despite the interruption, he was successful. But I’m not going to let him leave with the last word.
“Boundaries are meant to be crossed and redrawn. If we stay stuck in a box of our own making, comfortable and secure in the knowledge of every corner, we will never explore all that is possible. In fashion, or in life.” Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Hopefully, you will see what happens with the upcoming shows and your fears will be assuaged.”