Meetings were the graveyards of creativity, Roxy decided as she clicked through her slides with a faint scowl.
She loved her job, yes. She loved the research, the brainstorming, the hours hunched over her laptop pulling threads of an idea until it gleamed like silk. She loved drafting campaigns that made people actually feel something. That was marketing to her—persuasion as art, storytelling as strategy.
But meetings like these? They were a slow, dull death.
Cillian Vernon's idea of structure was merciless. Weekly reports. Every department. No excuses. He treated "time is money" like scripture and the rest of them were disciples dragged to the altar. Roxy thought it was ridiculous—her last company had never pulled marketing into these routine check-ins—but here, there was no escape.
She sat at the long polished table with her team, eyes glazed as yet another department droned about numbers. Roxy sipped lukewarm coffee from the paper cup she'd smuggled in, half-doodling in her notebook, half-waiting for her turn.
When the sales report finally wrapped, Roxy's lips curved into a sly smile. Opportunity had arrived.
She raised her hand and walk forward, eyes glinting, and said sweetly, "If I may, I'd like to share something I've been working on."
Cillian's head snapped toward her. Just a glance, sharp as a blade. Roxy felt it slice across the table, and her smile only deepened. He knew exactly what she was up to.
She clicked to the next slide, the one she'd finished minutes before the meeting. The title gleamed: Expanding Avelisse Beyond High-Class Exclusivity.
The air shifted.
A ripple of surprise moved across the table—some startled, some curious, one or two letting out a small snort of disbelief. Roxy basked in it, her smirk widening. For the first time, she wasn't whispering her idea in private only to get shut down by Cillian's cold no. This time, she had an audience. This time, he had to listen.
"Now," she began, tone professional but movements effortlessly confident. Her hands spoke as much as her words, gestures fluid, charming. "We all know Avelisse is synonymous with luxury. That reputation is our crown jewel. But what if we didn't stop there? What if we found a way to expand—carefully, strategically—into markets more accessible to a wider audience?"
Her slide shifted to mock-ups she'd whipped together.
Cillian's voice came, low and clipped. "Ms. Duval, I don't recall approving this addition to today's presentation. Nor receiving any notice of it."
Roxy flashed him a smile that was both apologetic and smug. "True. But since we're all here, why not?"
Before Cillian could slice the idea down, Samuel—the creative director, salt-and-pepper hair falling into his glasses—raised a hand. His tone was casual, almost amused. "Why don't we hear her out first?"
The air grew taut. Even Roxy felt a chill crawl along her spine. Everyone knew there was always tension between Samuel and Cillian—the eternal clash of art versus business. And now Samuel had thrown his weight onto her side.
Roxy straightened, heart thrumming but smile bright. "Thank you, Samuel."
She clicked forward again. "I'm not suggesting a radical leap. We don't need to turn couture gowns into sweatpants overnight. But imagine a step-by-step approach—starting with professional wear. Elegant work outfits that carry the same Avelisse refinement, but designed for accessibility. Later, we can consider street and casual wear. Expanding, not replacing. Adding colors to the palette, not painting over it."
A voice from down the table cut in, skeptical. "So … what's the difference between us and other brands then?"
Roxy's grin sharpened. She'd been waiting for that. She turned another slide—photos of celebrities, red carpets, famous faces draped in Avelisse gowns.
"This," she said simply, tapping the images. "We already sit at the top. That's our advantage. When the middle class sees we're dressing icons like Rihanna, like Emma Stone, like every Oscar red carpet darling—they'll trust the brand immediately. They'll want a piece of it. Imagine comments online: "Finally, something from Avelisse I can afford." Or "I've been waiting for this." We wouldn't be rebranding. We'd be expanding. Growing roots wider while keeping the crown high."
She spoke easily, persuasively, the natural cadence of someone who knew how to sell an idea without making it feel like a sale.
And as she spoke, she caught glimpses—nodding heads, intrigued faces. The spark of interest glimmering across the table.
Her smirk grew. She was winning them.
"We don't have to be bound by tradition forever," she continued, voice warm but firm. "Tradition is valuable, yes. But so is evolution. Avelisse has been the definition of luxury for three decades. Now it can be more."
That was when Cillian's voice cut across hers. Stern. Final. "The meeting is adjourned. Everyone may leave. Except Ms. RoxanneDuval."
The room froze. Then chairs scraped, papers rustled, voices murmured. A few glanced at Roxy with pity. She might have crossed a line. She might have said too much.
But only one look mattered—Samuel's, as he rose, he gave her a small smile. Encouraging. Supportive.
"Think about it, Cillian," Samuel said before leaving. Not as creative director to CEO. But like an uncle prodding a nephew.
Roxy held onto that smile like armor.
When the room emptied, she remained seated, crossing her legs, adjusting her laptop as if nothing was amiss.
Cillian's voice came, sharp. "Who told you to sit?"
Roxy lifted her gaze, feigning innocence. "You told everyone to leave. Except me. So I stayed. What's wrong?"
Cillian clenched his jaw, teeth gritting. This woman. He fixed her with a stare that could break steel. "Do you even realize what you just did?"
She shrugged lightly. "I just spoke my ideas."
"You disrespected the company." His tone snapped like a whip.
Her frown was immediate, genuine. "Disrespect? No. Avelisse has been my dream since I was a teenager. The last thing I'd ever want is disrespect. I just want what's best for the brand."
"The company has stood for over thirty years," Cillian said, voice low but hard. "Before you were even born. It has thrived by staying in its lane—luxury, exclusivity, high class. And it still stands. Stronger than ever."
"I know," Roxy replied, softer, but her eyes sparked with defiance. "And I admire that stability. But stability doesn't mean we can't grow. Not every change is a bad one."
"It's not that simple." He rose from his chair, pacing slowly. His presence filled the room like a storm. "This isn't adding new dishes to a restaurant menu. This is couture. Fashion. The production alone—costs, replacements, adjustments—it's monumental."
Roxy smirked, leaning back in her chair. "So, you're scared. Of change. Of experiments."
Cillian's head snapped toward her, gaze narrowing. He walked toward her, deliberate, each step echoing on the floor. "Say what you want about me, but the answer is no."
She tilted her chin up, eyes never wavering even as he came to stand beside her chair. From here, he was taller, broader, his shadow falling across her desk.
"We never know unless we try," she said, voice steady, challenging.
For a moment, he looked down at her, studying the defiant fire in her eyes. Her face—so alive, so stubborn—dared him to look away. His voice dropped, almost curious despite himself. "What makes you so mouthy?"
Roxy rose to her feet, laptop clutched at her side. She had to look up at him, but her gaze didn't falter. "Maybe I'm not mouthy. Maybe I just don't choke down what I think."
Her heart stuttered—damn Sophia. Damn her voice in Roxy's head whispering but he's handsome, isn't he?
Up close, she could see it. The depth of his black irises, sharp against pale skin. The line of his jaw, the subtle scruff of beard. His cologne—subtle, expensive, infuriatingly good.
Roxy clenched her jaw. Focus.
Nobody spoke. The silence thickened, a wire pulled tight between them. Two stubborn souls, neither willing to bow.
Finally, she broke it. "Being scared to lose already means you've lost."
Cillian exhaled sharply, a controlled sigh. "Leave."
Roxy crossed her arms. "Not until you promise to think about it."
His eyes widened slightly, disbelief flashing. This woman—she was insufferable. A headache. A thorn in his side. And yet, beneath the irritation, there was something else. Something magnetic.
"Do you even realize you're talking to your boss? To the CEO?" His voice dropped lower, colder.
She nodded once, boldly. "Of course. That's why I'm here. Convincing my boss. Convincing my CEO. About an opportunity for his company."
He stared at her a long moment. Then, finally, he turned, walking back to his chair. He lowered himself into it, voice cool. "Fine."
Roxy blinked. "Fine?"
"Fine. I'll think about it."
Her grin burst wide. "Yes!" She hugged her laptop to her chest, practically bouncing. "Thank you, Mr. Vernon! I'll send you the full proposal as soon as possible."
"I didn't say—"
But she was already halfway out the door, humming under her breath, victory sweet in her step. Cillian leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty doorway, running a hand along his jaw.
Roxanne Duval was trouble. The kind of trouble that burned too brightly to ignore.