"Uncle, I would have really loved it if you would have at least come downstairs for my engagement ceremony."
Mason Glory, or as many called him, the "MN.G," sat across from his uncle, whose presence seemed to swallow the entire room.
The older man's gaze was fixed on the screen of his tablet, his fingers tapping with rhythmic precision. The office was a fortress of power, with walls lined with dark oak and an air of oppressive authority that stifled even the most confident of visitors.
"That's not what I want to hear, Mason Glory," his uncle replied, his voice cold and detached.
His eyes never left the screen, but the weight of his words landed squarely on Mason's shoulders and Mason dared not not understand!
Mason, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that spoke of wealth and status, sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced at his phone, then back at his uncle, his face a mix of frustration and resignation.
"Fine… Uncle, I appreciate the money you sent over for the designers and makeup artists. I was able to book the model Lillian recommended and get him ready."
A faint nod was the only response from his uncle. Mason knew better than to expect more from such a robotic and workaholic man.
The air in the room was thick with silence, broken only by the subtle tapping of the uncle's fingers against the glass screen.
Four glossy photographs of a vogue looking male hunk model lay on the desk, each capturing a different angle of the man's striking features.
August Farley! Those were four pictures of August's image in different positions. Those pictures the french photographer, Ric Pierre had taken were released though it's just been a week so barely 2% of the world had gotten to behold such hotness online.
Plus, August planned on selling them privately to a magazine company or anyone willing to pay a hefty price which he hadn't started yet but had made his intentions known randomly online.
That intention was seen by a certain someone and the pictures were printed to hard copy and handed over to him - Mason's Uncle!
Mason's eyes drifted to the pictures, but before he could linger too long, he rose from his seat. "I'll go get ready for the party," he said, more to fill the space than to inform his uncle.
As he left the room, the door barely closed behind him before the older man standing by the wall stepped forward. Clyde Mackerel, Mason uncle's long-serving assistant, was a man of few words but many responsibilities.
He approached the desk with a cautious step, his eyes darting to the pictures of the vogue model, August, before settling on his boss's face. A boss he was 12 years older than.
"Mr. King," Clyde began, his voice steady but laced with tension, "the model you instructed me to contact… they've declined our offer."
The tapping stopped. Mr. King, Mason uncle's gaze finally lifted from the screen, locking onto Clyde with an intensity that made the room feel even smaller.
The atmosphere grew icy all of a sudden, as if the very air had frozen in response to the unspoken wrath brewing beneath Mr. King's composed exterior.
"In essence, what are you saying, Clyde?" Mr. King's tone was deceptively calm, but Clyde knew better than to be fooled by it.
For a brief second, Clyde's thoughts raced—an inner monologue of regret and frustration. Was I not clear enough? Should I have used French which is Mr. King's second language or Spanish which was the first language he spoke as a baby?
Out loud, however, he only managed to stammer, "In essence, I'm saying the model has rejected the offer. I'm sorry, sir."
There was a momentary pause that followed, a silence so thick it threatened to choke the life out of the room.
And then—bang! Mr. King's fist hit the desk with a force that rattled the entire room, but he quickly composed himself immediately like he didn't just vent, adjusting his glasses as if the outburst had never happened.
His eyes returned to the screen, dismissing the disturbance as easily as one would do to a fly.
Clyde stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew better than to speak again, but the tension gnawed at him.
Eventually, he gathered the courage to ask, "What should we do now, sir?"
Mr. King's response was quiet, almost serene, but it carried a weight that pressed down on Clyde's very soul. "Make him go bankrupt," he said, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the pictures of August once more.
It was a command, not a suggestion, and Clyde knew that failure was not an option.
Though, the intended meaning of that command was more than he played out and Clyde knew this well. He had a small green book where he wrote these commands.
For example, when Mr. King says 'Get me that suit' it means, 'Get me the whole store and make sure no one aside me wears that suit. Get the copies of it somehow, anyhow.'
And now he said, 'Make him go bankrupt', it meant, 'Make sure that model gets no collaboration, no deals, no acceptance, no source of getting money aside from him, Mr. King himself.'
Tsk, tsk! Demon!!!
With a respectful bow, Clyde retreated from the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Inside, Mr. King resumed his tapping, the rhythm a stark contrast to the storm brewing just beneath the surface. "A rejection once is equal to getting a million rejections yourself, hmph!"