THIRTY
Quan
“So good to meet you in person at last,” I tell Paul Richard, head of LVMH Acquisitions, as I shake his hand.
“Likewise.” He flashes a polite smile at me, and after unbuttoning his suit coat, he sits in the chair across from me at the restaurant table.
I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week. It’s our last meeting before we finalize the terms in the contracts. After that, we’re signing.
Michael Larsen Apparel is going to be an LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton company.
But this guy is giving me strange vibes. I don’t know what it is exactly, but something isn’t right.
A waiter offers to fill his water glass, and he waves them away. “No need, I won’t be long.” Focusing on me, he says, “You probably have lots of questions, so let me reassure you that yes, we want Michael Larsen and the MLA brand under our umbrella. We’re devoted to making this happen. And I must say, your leadership of the company up until now has been impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, thinking maybe I was wrong about him. “It’s been really exciting getting the company off the ground. I’m looking forward to working with your team as we continue to grow.”
“It would be a learning experience for you, I’m sure,” Paul says, and there it is again. That strange vibe. “Especially given your limited experience.”
I sit up straighter in my chair as alarm shoots up my spine. “That hasn’t been an issue for us so far.”
Paul makes a point of adjusting the diamond cuff link on his pristine white sleeve before saying, “Let’s cut straight to the chase. You’re not the right person to lead the company post acquisition. We’re going to instate a CEO with the proper credentials, but if you’re interested, we would like you to head the sales team.”
My body heats up until I can feel my neck burning beneath the collar of my T-shirt and sports jacket. “We were assured since the beginning that Michael and I would remain in our current positions.”
“Michael definitely needs to remain,” Paul says.
And I understand what he’s not saying: Michael is essential. I’m not.
“You and Michael Larsen are family, is that correct?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Watching me steadily, he says, “I know it would be easy to take this personally and turn the deal down, but you need to ask yourself if that would be the best thing for Michael. I’m telling you now, if you do that, you won’t hear from us again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.” Before I can say anything, he gets up, buttons his suit coat, and checks his watch, frowning like our two-second meeting ran long. “I’m going to have the lawyers put a pause on the contracts. A week should be enough time for you to think things over. You have my contact information. I hope I hear good news a week from Monday.”
He leaves, and I sit there alone. For the first time in my life, I really understand what it means to “lose face.” The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like anything, and I can’t turn my face toward them. I can’t stand being seen right now. I can’t look anyone in the eye.
I haven’t eaten and I like this place, but I throw a twenty on the table and go, keeping my head down. Outside, I plow down the sidewalk until I reach my bike and then I jump on it and hit the streets. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going to get there fast.
As the world flashes by quicker and quicker, I think, Fuck that guy. Michael and I made this company—both of us. I know what I did, what I accomplished. I’m not replaceable. Michael won’t let them break us apart. We’re partners. We stay together. MLA was fine before they came along. We’ll be fine without them.
I’d rather burn it all down than hand it to that jackass.
Michael would burn it down with me if I asked him to.
We’re that close. Closer than brothers.
But I’d never ask him to do that.
And I’d never ask him to give up his dreams. Not for me.
I turn onto the freeway and push my bike to its limits as I weave in and out of the traffic. I can get a speeding ticket for this—if a cop can catch me. At this point, I’d welcome the chase.
I want to break rules, destroy things, watch smoke blacken the sky. I don’t give a shit if I get hurt in the process. Maybe I even crave the taste of pain. It couldn’t rival
this gaping sense of betrayal.
But there’s someone who would care if I got hurt, someone who likes it when I drive with my hands precisely at ten and two and signal at every turn.