Emilia Keller
New York
202*
"What is the meaning of this, Moranno?" A man in his late 30s stood up abruptly, his face etched with disbelief as he stared at Ken.
"Mr. Cooper, I have eyes and ears everywhere," Ken responded, his voice firm but calm. "Don't play dumb with me. Don't make me call security on you. I believe you know better than to leave quietly and not make a scene."
Ken's eyes bore into Mr. Cooper, his gaze unwavering. The room fell silent, with everyone staring at the two men like they were actors in a play. Their faces reflected confusion, but no one dared question Ken's authority.Mr. Cooper, however, seethed with rage, his fist clenched as he glared at Ken. "Go to hell, Moranno," he spat, storming towards the door.
Ken chuckled, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I was just there yesterday, Looks like I'll be making a return trip to hell. At this rate, I might just live there."
Mr. Cooper slammed the door behind him, leaving the room in stunned silence. My eyes grew wide as I stared at Ken, my mind reeling with shock. He remembers yesterday! He knew I was the girl from last night! He had played me all along! These thoughts swirled through my head as I stared at Ken, my eyes fixed on his back. I was utterly shocked that he clearly remembered last night, yet acted like nothing had happened. He even demanded I present his project, and now made that casual comment, as if I wasn't standing right behind him.
What was he thinking? Did he plan all this from the start? Did he plan to fire me in front of all these people, just like he did to Mr. Cooper? My muscles tensed at the thought of being fired in front of everyone. I could feel sweat trickling down my spine as fear gripped me.
I could already hear the mocking laughter and snide comments. The women who stared at me with jealousy, disgust, and unease; the men who looked at me with lust, anger, and annoyance since I stepped into this conference room. I was done for.
"And that's going to be all for today," Ken stated, adjourning the meeting. Nobody dared ask him any questions or demand explanations. They quietly packed their belongings and left, while I remained frozen in thought.
"Emilia," he called out, standing up from his seat.
I was startled. "Sir?" I replied, my voice laced with a mix of confusion and apprehension.
Why hadn't he fire me? What game was he playing? I had been so convinced that he would fire me on the spot. Now, I was torn between feeling relieved and feeling uneasy.
"Are you coming or not?" Ken asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked at me over his shoulder, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
"Sorry, sir," I apologized, still trying to process what was happening.
"Ken," he corrected, as he walked out of the conference room. I followed him silently, my mind racing with thoughts of what had transpired earlier and what to expect once we returned to the office.
The elevator doors slid open, and Ken stepped inside. "Cat got your tongue, Emilia?" he asked, breaking the intense silence between us.
I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of his voice. "Pardon me, sir, could you repeat what you said? I was lost in thought," I mumbled, my head bowed in an attempt to avoid his gaze.
"You've been really quiet since the meeting ended," Ken observed, his eyes fixed on me.
My eyes widened as I stared at my feet, not daring to look at him after what had happened the previous night. "S-so-sorry, si-"
"Look at me," Ken commanded, closing the gap between us.
I slowly raised my head, looking up at the man in front of me. I avoided his eyes, not wanting to see the rage or disappointment that I expected to find there.
"I don't plan on getting you fired if that's what you fear," Ken sighed, his voice laced with a hint of helplessness.
As I stepped into the elevator, I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. The words Ken spoke lingered in my mind, making me question everything. I raised my head, and our eyes met. The air was thick with tension as we stood there, breathing the same air.
Ken's gaze was intense, piercing through me like a sharp knife. I felt my heart racing, my mind going blank. I stepped back, but the cold elevator wall halted my retreat. The silence was oppressive, heavy with unspoken words.
"I don't tolerate disrespect, especially from my employees," Ken said, his voice low and even. "But consider yourself lucky." His eyes never left mine, and I felt like he could see right through me.
"Thank you, sir," I stammered, trying to find my footing. "I'm deeply sorry. It's so kind of you. I promise—"
Ken's smirk cut me off. "Who spoke about kindness?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. "I want something in return. You should know better, Emilia. Nobody does anything for free in this industry."
My eyes widened as I struggled to comprehend what he was asking. What could he possibly want from me? I felt a surge of frustration, biting my lower lip to keep my emotions in check.
"Obviously, sir," I replied, trying to sound calm.
Ken's eyes glinted with amusement. "From today onwards, I want you to refer to me as Ken."
I hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Understood, Si—...Ken."
The elevator doors slid open, and Ken stepped out, leaving me feeling bewildered and confused. I followed him, my mind racing with questions.
"Ken!" I called out, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks.
He halted, but didn't turn around. I felt a pang of uncertainty, wondering if I had overstepped.
"You still haven't told me what you wanted in return," I said, trying to sound confident.
Ken's response was low and smooth. "Is that so? I recall telling you in the elevator, unless you want to add your punishment, Emilia."
His gaze swept over me, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. What did he mean? What punishment?
As Ken walked away, I was left standing in the hallway, feeling frustrated and confused. What did he want from me?
The only thing he had demanded from me was
"HIS NAME!" That was it ? why was he so obsessed with me using his name?
♟️♟️♟️
"12:30.You are to be there in 15minutes Sir".
"Just call and cancel the appointment".He tsked."Emilia , you don't wish to be forgiven do you ? this is the last warning ".He added sitting upright on his chair as he entwined his fingers on both hands together.
"S-so-"
" So-rry sir." He interrupted. "If you're really sorry then do what I ask you to do."
"Understood ."
He tilted his head immediately after I said that word like he was anticipating something from me.
" Ken. " I added.He then nodded in appreciation.
*Alarm buzzing*
"Oh my alarm!"
"Ken we really need to get going ." I added. "Cancel the appointment."
"No I can't , I can see in the notes of your schedule that this appointment had been already canceled twice. H**l no you are coming with me." I grumbled while pinching the skin between my brows.
"Cancel it for the fourth time then." He muttered while resting his chin on his knuckles.
"You leave me with no choice then." I sighed walking towards him.
I took his his arms and pulled him out of his chair...tried, I tried pulling him out of his chair but to no avail. He didn't even burge. Why was he making everything difficult for me.He had to go to the designers to take his measurements for the outfit he was going to wear for the Paris Stylish Week in 6months. Quite weird that the event was in 6month time but he had to take measurements now I guess the designer takes a lot of time designing and bringing out this dresses to life.
I then stopped I was panting heavily. " Please !" I murmured while catching my breathe.
He smiled slightly at the hearing of her please but Emilia was busily try to catch her breathe that she didn't notice.His eyes narrowed towards her and he stood up from his seat grabbed his shades and a face mask from the packet on his table. "Let's get going then."
He wore his masks and shades leaving Emilia curious of why he wore them before leaving his office or when entering this building.
♟️♟️♟️
"Welcome, Monsieur Moranno et Madame ..." an average-height, dark-skinned man greeted with a polished smile.
"Keller." I shook his hand, noticing the impeccable style that exuded luxury from every piece of clothing he wore. From his exquisite jewelry to his precision-tailored suit, every detail seemed meticulously curated. The boutique was vast, with drawings of designs adorning the walls alongside pictures of celebrities in stunning red-carpet gowns. Mannequins displayed an array of unique, high-end dresses and suits within glass cupboards.
As he introduced himself, "I am Pierre Martins, You call me Pierre." I caught the hint of a French accent and thought to myself, "Ah, he's French."
Pierre turned to me, his eyes lighting up with admiration. "What a pretty lady, zis one. 'Ave you ever considered a modeling career?" he asked, his gaze lingering on me with a wide, appreciative smile. I shook my head. "Not really," I replied.
Pierre looked disappointed. "Oh mon dieu, what a waste," he said with a sigh. Then, his demeanor shifted as he remembered his manners. "Oh dear, where are my manners? Please, follow me, Monsieur Moranno. Let's take a seat, oui?"
We followed him upstairs and settled around a sleek, glass table positioned in the corner of the room. Ken finally spoke up, his tone hinting at impatience. "I don't have much time, Pierre. Please, let's make this quick."
"Always grumpy as ever, zis one," Pierre said with a knowing grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You're going to get old in zee blink of an eye if you keep being zis grumpy," he added, his tone lighthearted and his French accent thick and rich.
I couldn't help but chuckle at Pierre's remark, but Ken's glare quickly silenced me. Pierre poured tea into delicate cups, his movements fluid and precise. "I didn't zink you'd make it today, considering all zee cancellations lately, Monsieur Moranno," he said, handing Ken a cup.
Ken's response was curt. "I don't see why I'm here when you already have all my measurements." Pierre's smile never wavered. "Is zis so, Monsieur Moranno?" he said, producing two square pieces of cloth from his bag. "Jet black or Ebony black zen?" he asked, presenting the fabrics to Ken.
Ken's gaze lingered on the fabrics, his expression still dissatisfied. Pierre pulled out another piece of cloth. "Obsidian or Vantablack, perhaps?" Ken's eyes narrowed slightly before he finally spoke up. "Vantablack."
"Nice choice, Monsieur Moranno," Pierre said, his approval evident. "Zis will look très chic on you."
However, Ken's expression remained stoic. Pierre handed him two more pieces of cloth, this time in red. "Silk or crêpe?" he asked.
Ken's response was immediate and blunt. "Isn't it the same thing? What kind of bullsh*t is this?"
Pierre's smile grew wider as Ken's frustration mounted. "If you can't point out difference between zee two, it means you don't like either," Pierre said, his tone playful and his French accent noticeable. The back-and-forth between Pierre and Ken continued, with Pierre presenting options and Ken struggling to make decisions.
I sipped my tea, amused by the exchange. Ken's expensive attire didn't seem to translate to fashion expertise, and his growing frustration only made me giggle more. Pierre's smile never wavered. "I guess you understand why I insisted on your presence here, Monsieur Moranno," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
Ken glared at him, but Pierre remained unbothered. Just when it seemed like they were done, Pierre clapped his hands and announced, "And zis is a wrap, oui?" Ken stood up, relieved, but Pierre quickly added, "We still 'ave to choose your accessories, Monsieur Moranno."
Ken's frown deepened, and I laughed harder. He sat back down on the couch, crossing his legs and scowling. Pierre presented him with several accessories, each one eliciting a deeper frown from Ken. Every time Ken tried to make a choice, Pierre would intervene, offering his opinion or pointing out potential drawbacks. "Non, non, non, Monsieur Moranno, zis one would not go well with zee suit." he would say, or "Zis accessory, eet ees not quite right, perhaps we can try something else?"
The dynamic between Pierre and Ken was entertaining, to say the least. Ken's grumpiness only seemed to fuel Pierre's creativity.
"Zut alors, if zis is so difficult, why don't Madame Keller choose for you?" Pierre said with a charming French accent, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he turned to me.
"You couldn't think of that sooner, old man," Ken grumbled, his brow furrowed in frustration.
I hesitated, feeling a bit overwhelmed. "I don't think I should choose," I said, looking down. "I mean, I don't know anything about jewelry and accessories. I don't—"
Pierre's eyes lit up with amusement. "Ah, mais non, Madame Keller, you are being too modest."
This is the Paris Fashion Week, after all. Any wrong move, and Mr. Moranno's name would be dragged through the mud I thought inwardly.
Just then, Pierre's gaze fell upon my shoes. "Oh dear, aren't zose ze new Deluvre jet black heels you're wearing?" he asked, his voice filled with admiration."styling eet with zat pencil skirt perfect."
I was taken aback. "How did you know?" I asked, surprised.
Pierre chuckled,"Oh, ma belle, I've been designing clothes since I was seize ans (16). I know when I see something expensive."
He took my hands in his, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Now, we don't have time to waste, do we, Madame Keller? You must help Monsieur Moranno choose his accessories."
With Pierre's guidance, I found myself drawn into the process, using my own fashion sense to help Ken. Before long, we had made our selections, and Pierre began sketching out the attire for Ken's approval.
Ken, however, was growing impatient. "Pierre, I don't have time for this. Just send the sketches to the company's email, and I'll choose when I get to my office," he said, his tone brusque.
Pierre's face fell, but he nodded graciously. "Oui, oui, Monsieur Moranno. As you wish." Despite his displeasure, he smiled and handed Ken a card with the company's email address. "I'll send ze sketches immediately."
We were about leaving when Pierre added, "You don't plan on going alone, do you?" Pierre asked Ken, his voice laced with a hint of curiosity. Ken sighed helplessly. "Isn't that obvious?" Ken asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, as he headed towards the stairs.
"Oh, zut!" Pierre exclaimed, his French accent thick and rich. "I zought you were going wiz Madame Keller." Pierre said, his shoulders shrugging slightly. Ken halted mid-step, his eyes narrowing slightly.
I looked at Pierre in utter disbelief. Me, going to Paris for Paris Fashion Week? No way. As Ken's plus one? No f*cking way. I had seen it on TV and social media, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought I'd be attending such an event. That was a dream that would never come true.
"I 'eard Madame Celine LeBlanc will be present zis year, but never mind," Pierre continued, his French accent adding a charming flair to his words. Ken let out a deep sigh. "I guess I'm having a plus one then," he said, his tone resigned.
I found my voice, shocked. "What? No! You haven't asked me if I'm free!" I exclaimed, my words tumbling out in a rush.
Ken passed by me, his expression unapologetic. "I don't remember having to ask." he said, sitting back down on the couch with a casual air.
Pierre giggled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, ma belle, do not worry, I am going to make you look fabuleuse. Magnifique. You are already très jolie; I am just going to enhance your beauté."
I smiled at Pierre, feeling a bit overwhelmed. "That's very kind of you, Pierre, but I don't have the money to afford a designer dress," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Nonsense," Pierre said, waving his hand dismissively as he entered the room on the left. "Who said you're going to pay?" Ken spoke up from the couch, his eyes fixed on his phone. "I invited you, so I'll handle the bills."
I hesitated, feeling a bit uneasy. "But—"
Ken cut me off, his tone firm. "No buts. I can't afford my plus one wearing some cheap drugstore dress." I realized then that Ken's motivation wasn't just about me not embarrassing him; he wanted me there for some Leblanc lady . Who was she, anyway? An ex-girlfriend? A business associate?
Pierre and I had spent hours deliberating over fabrics, colors, accessories, and other fancy terms I couldn't even pronounce. He had sketched out three stunning dresses for me to choose from, each one more breathtaking than the last. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of colors and gemstones that existed. And don't even get me started on the fabrics – silk, chiffon, organza... it was like learning a new language.
Meanwhile, Ken spent his time working on his laptop, occasionally glancing up to mock me with a smirk. I felt frustrated, like I was stuck in a never ending nightmare of fashion disasters. My college assignments had never been this frustrating at least then I knew what I was doing.