Celine adjusted the sleeves of her cream belted Max Mara coat as she entered the private showroom. The lighting was soft and angled, bouncing off mannequins clad in her brand's upcoming winter line, sleek cashmere sets, bold-shouldered wool coats, and silk-layered evening wear, all tailored with precision and elegance.
Mr. Zen was already waiting, dressed in a sharp navy suit with a Chanel pin on his lapel. He turned at the sound of her heels, offering a respectful nod. "Ms. Celine."
"Mr. Zen," she replied with a warm smile, extending a hand. "Thank you for making time."
"Always curious to see what you're building next."
Celine led him through the space with calm confidence. "This winter line plays with contrast, structure against flow, classic textures with sharp, unexpected accents."
She stopped before a mannequin dressed in a slate grey tailored overcoat with an exaggerated collar, paired with a silk turtleneck and straight-leg leather trousers. "This, for instance. The cut is masculine, but the material and drape speak to softness and power. It's commanding. Timeless."
Zen studied the piece, nodding slowly. "Very Chanel."
"Exactly. That's why I believe a collaboration would be mutually beneficial. You bring legacy. I bring reinvention."
He glanced at the next piece, an ivory double-breasted coat with a dramatic fur collar. "And profitability?"
"We've had consistent growth for six quarters. Our buyers are trend-conscious but fiercely loyal. You'd have access to that market, curated under your aesthetic. Co-branded, of course."
He smiled. "You've come prepared."
Celine tilted her head. "I don't pitch unless I intend to close."
A beat passed. Then he extended his hand. "Let's talk contracts. My team will follow up with a full breakdown, timelines, deliverable."
She gave a small smile as she stepped forward, slipped her hand into his with composed grace
"Efficient. I like that."
"Thank you for trusting in my vision, Mr. Zen," she said smoothly. "I believe this collaboration will speak volumes."
His grip was firm but courteous. "You've made quite the impression, Ms. Celine. I'll inform my board, we look forward to the rollout."
She nodded once. "So do I. My team will follow up with the necessary documents and promotional calendar. We're ready to deliver."
With a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment, Mr. Zen released her hand and exited the room, leaving behind the quiet scent of success.
Celine exhaled, her gaze flicking to the winter display behind her, sleek, strategic, and now officially Chanel-approved.
***
August POV:
The table was set as it always was every Friday, neatly laid napkins, a large bowl of steaming jollof rice at the center, grilled plantain stacked like gold bricks, and spicy pepper chicken arranged with love. It was a rule: no matter how busy, everyone came home for lunch on Fridays. His mother's rule , non-negotiable.
August sat with Liam beside him, helping the boy spoon rice into his mouth. Across from him, his father, a man of few but firm words, took a slow bite, watching him carefully. His mother sat at the head of the table, eyes flicking between her son and grandson, the silence between courses almost heavy.
"You still haven't spoken to her?" she asked, not looking up from her plate.
August didn't need to ask who. "No, mom. And I don't plan to."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "A woman doesn't leave her child without a reason. Maybe you—"
"Mom," he cut in, firm but not raised. "Not today."
His father cleared his throat, placing down his spoon. "Leave the boy. Marissa made her choice. Let him focus on the living, not the lost."
August gave his father a grateful glance.
The old man continued, "How's the restaurant? Julian said it's been full all week."
A small smile tugged at August's lips. "It's good. Busy. We're almost fully booked through the month."
His father nodded. "You've built something real. Just don't let anything, or anyone, ruin it."
His mother huffed quietly, not ready to give up her opinion, but didn't push further. Liam, oblivious to the tension, raised his arms in victory, rice smudged on his cheeks. "I finished mine!"
August chuckled, ruffling his son's curls. "That's my boy."
As August leaned back slightly in his chair, he reached for a spicy drumstick from the plate at the center of the table. He took a bite, let out a low appreciative hum, and said through a full mouth, "God… no matter what, mom's pepper chicken still hits like a truck."
From the hallway, footsteps echoed, fast and easy.
"You're still eating like a construction worker," came a familiar voice.
"Malcolm," August smirked, seeing his younger brother stride in, sleeves rolled up, blazer half-buttoned,always halfway between boardroom and chaos. That used to be his life before but not anymore.
"Had a board meeting," Malcolm said, sliding into the empty chair and reaching across to grab a piece of chicken. "Father's accountant messed up the export figures again. We might be looking at another audit."
Their father grunted but didn't comment.
August wiped his hands. "You're still handling all of that yourself?"
Malcolm rolled his eyes. "If I don't, who will? You ran off to cook soup, remember?"
August chuckled. "Guilty. Just making sure the family empire hasn't collapsed without me."
Malcolm pointed his chicken bone at him. "Not yet. But come back when I'm ready to burn the whole thing down."
Their mother sighed. "Both of you. Eat before the rice gets cold."
"Already ahead of you," August muttered, taking another big bite.