sypnosis:
Y/n l/n, the ceo to her family's business is invited to attend the Saint Laurent 2023 spring fashion show due to a business partnership, there she meets the lovely Rosé from blackpink
———
"Right well, remind me once more of the compelling reasons that necessitate my attendance."
"Because you have expressed a desire to collaborate with the fashion brand," he replied matter-of-factly.
I turned my attention from the mirror's reflection to my assistant, who stood attentively behind me, his tablet cradled in his hands like a prized possession. "Ah, charming," I murmured with an ironic inflection. I then resumed my grooming ritual, deftly adjusting my cufflinks while meticulously aligning my gray vest and the tie neatly tucked beneath it.
"And how do I appear?" I asked, casting a glance back at him. He suddenly focused his gaze on me and, with a nasally dialect that could only be described as grotesque, enunciated, "Absolutely amazing."
A shiver of distaste coursed through me, prompting an involuntary scrunch of my nose. "For heaven's sake, let's keep the commentary strictly in French," I retorted. With that, I deftly swung by him, reaching for my watch lying on the bed and fastening it onto my left wrist with a precise flick of my wrist.
It is often the case that individuals of my stature employ an entourage of stylists to tend to even the most minute details of their appearance, ensuring that no element is left to chance—a practice I find to be utterly redundant.
Why would I, a fully-formed adult, require assistance to fasten the buttons of my shirt?
It seems as though the fabric of contemporary civilization has succumbed to a pervasive sense of lethargy.
Ah, Americans, I tell you.
As I ran a hand through my meticulously styled hair, I gestured for my assistant to accompany me as we made our way out of my penthouse, an opulent enclave situated in the very heart of Paris. Upon our exit, I was greeted by the imposing presence of my security team, who stood ready, their vigilance palpable. As I raised my hand to signal them to pause, a sense of exasperation washed over me.
"It's merely a fashion show, what conceivable threat could there possibly be?" I remarked, my tone laced with sarcastic incredulity.
"Your father—" one of them started to say but I swiftly interjected, waving an imperious hand in dismissal.
"I shall address my father at a more opportune time," I replied with a hint of annoyance.
That old man ought to be savoring the tranquil pleasures of a Caribbean cruise alongside my mother, rather than embroiling himself in the chaotic affairs associated with his only daughter's attempts to run the family business.
My chauffeur stood with poised elegance beside the sleek black car, dutifully holding the door open for me as I slid inside with an air of effortless grace. My assistant, who had occupied the passenger seat, promptly offered me the tablet he had been so eager to hold onto earlier, a subtle reminder of the business at hand.
"The branch in New York has sent over their financial statements," he remarked, a hint of disappointment lacing his voice. "It appears they have lost their touch."
I hummed softly in acknowledgment, scrolling through the digital document before me. A frown inevitably creased my brow as I squinted at the glaring numbers; profits had plummeted significantly compared to the previous month, which, I must add, had already shown a decline from the month before that.
