Screens lit up around the table, projections of mood boards, venue options, press strategies.
“We’re hosting,” I continued, “but Manny controls the narrative.That means we adapt to his creations without compromising our voice.”
A ripple of anticipation for his arrival moved through the room.
Manny Lennox.Even saying his name carried weight.
The door opened without announcement.
“Thank you for joining us,” I greeted.
He stepped in like he belonged anywhere he decided to be.
Tall.Immaculate.Linen coat draped open over a charcoal suit that looked like it had never known discomfort.His smile came easy—too easy—and his eyes went exactly where I expected them to be.On me.
“Peyton,” he said warmly, as if we were already old friends.“Finally.”
No greeting to the room.No acknowledgment of Creed at the back.
Interesting.
“Manny,” I replied evenly.“We were just starting.”
“Good,” he said, moving closer to the table.“I hate being late to things that matter.”
A few team members straightened instinctively.I didn’t.
He set his tablet down and leaned forward slightly.“I’ll be clear, so we don’t waste time.I don’t do committees, and I don’t do consensus.”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“I work with one person.Vision to vision.”
Silence settled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I felt Creed’s subtle watchful shift.
“That would be me,” I said calmly.
Manny’s smile sharpened.“Exactly.”
I didn’t miss the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, or the way his attention lingered just long enough to be noticed.
“And the designs?”I prompted.
He straightened.“Unseen.Until show night.”
A murmur moved through the table.
“I know,” he continued smoothly.“That makes people nervous.”
His eyes cut briefly toward the back of the room.To Creed.
“Trust is part of the art.”
Creed didn’t move.Didn’t speak.Didn’t correct him.
Good.
