Chapter 16: Welcome to the Shit Show
Welcome ladies and gentlemen!
Behold the stage as the curtain rises on a scene of opulence and intrigue, set in the gilded halls of modern commerce, atop a New York City skyrise office! Picture this, if you will, a gathering most profound, where men of stature—lawyers, bankers, and men of business— convene in a grand conference room, their voices rumbling like the low roll of thunder upon the distant hills. Yes, their tones were deep, for they were all and only men, each eager to outdo the other in proclamations and decisions of great import.
But amidst this chorus of masculine authority, two figures stood apart—our heroines, Katherine and Rebecca, the lone darling women among this fraternity of wealth and power.
Katherine, the young, sat quietly—her lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line, her mind far adrift, navigating realms of complexity that none could fathom. As for Rebecca, she observed it all with the cool detachment of one accustomed to such displays, though the nature of the meeting was no small affair, for it concerned the family's future.
Ah, but this was no mere family meeting! Nay, it was a gathering of the Trust, the entity to which all their fortunes and holdings were bound. Mark well, dear audience, for not a carriage, nor a jewel, nor a single estate was owned by these heirs—nay, all were held by the Trust, that most cunning contrivance, designed to safeguard their wealth from the ravenous jaws of the Tax Collector! It was a delicate ballet of wealth and power, performed yearly, where votes were cast and fates were sealed.
At the head of the table, sat the King: Sir Richard Bellefleur Senior, who watched his trusted knights and untrusted children with the eyes of a mighty hawk. At his right hand, the eldest boy, Richard Junior sat impatiently in his chair, eager to play his favourite little game: trickeries for power.
And so, the day arrived: the metaphorical gavel is soon poised to decide the fate of Bonne Nuit, among other holdings. Upon the television screen before them shimmered the image of a magnificent manor house, sprawling over verdant hills—the jewel of Niagara on the Lake! Twenty-five million, they said, a sum most princely. And Leslie, the trusted lieutenant of His Majesty the King, rose to pose the question, his voice clear and commanding:
"Everyone in accordance with the sale of the Niagara on the Lake Winery, please say 'aye'."
"Aw, I liked that house," Rebecca murmured, almost to herself. "It would be such a cute place for an engagement party."
The image of the grand Niagara estate shined brightly on the large TV screen with its sprawling lawns and stately manor gleaming in the photographs. Though she had only visited the property once, its charm and elegance were undeniable. Her wistful thoughts, however, were quickly broken by the sudden interruption of her brother.
"You're not even engaged," came Dick Junior's sour retort, a man ever quick to quash any of his sister's frivolities. His vote, however, was swift and final: "Ay."
Rebecca rolled her eyes as the room murmured in agreement. Even the King nodded along, his attention already drifting. The permanent wrinkle between his brows was an indication that there was a thorn prickling his side. Rebecca could barely look at him.
Leslie stood ready to record their votes, his expression one of dutiful efficiency. Rebecca, ever the pragmatic one, let the Niagara estate slip away without protest, knowing this was not the moment to make waves. The grand house was lovely, but she had learned long ago to choose her battles wisely.
Beneath the surface of this meeting, something far more pressing loomed—a delicate matter yet unspoken. An article had appeared in the papers, and though no one had mentioned it, Rebecca could feel its weight hanging over the room like a sharp guillotine. She needed to keep her favour in reserve, ready for when its sharp blade inevitably dropped. It was imperative that she was not to be revealed as the anonymous source, and although she was confident in her wit and stealth, one could never be too sure how much the King knew. Rebecca knew there was a traitor at this table, and there was nothing that Sir Richard Bellefleur valued more than unconditional loyalty. A house was not worth the price of her silence, not when far greater stakes were at play.
"I wasn't particularly fond of their wines in the past few seasons," the King proclaimed from across the table. The murmurs became a chorus in agreement. "Aye," he voted, and as the King of the Family Trust, he held two votes, often the tiebreaker.
Katherine the Young, silent as ever, remained unmoved. She was a shadow in these meetings, her presence often completely unnoticed. Rebecca glanced at her but said nothing. Instead, she folded her arms and gave a slight shrug. Frank, the family's lawyer who also sat at the table, recorded the majority vote, putting the manor on the "to sell" list - its final fate.
The eldest boy took notice of his sister's lack of protest, and Rebecca had to pivot in order not to raise suspicion. "But we are keeping the California house, then."
Leslie flipped through his binder, his brow furrowing at the mention of yet another estate. "Which one?"
"The Malibu one, with the private beach," Rebecca said, her tone sharpened by her growing impatience. Her brother immediately raised his hand in agreement.
"I second that," Dick Junior added, for once agreeing and for always, with an unlikeable smirk.
The King who had been brooding in silence, let out a disapproving grunt. "Of course, you two would want that property tax sinkhole," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.
And then, unexpectedly, a voice broke through the noise—soft but deliberate. "Can we look at the commercial properties?"
The room fell silent. All eyes turned toward young Katherine, who had finally spoken. Leslie froze, caught mid-motion as he fumbled through his binder. The request caught him off guard, and not him alone. Katherine rarely, if ever, interjected. Typically, she would remain as quiet as a plant on the stage. And if she attended this meeting at all, it was only because Rebecca had managed to coax her into coming. Yet today, with the sale of Bonne Nuit on the table, her quiet presence had transformed into something far more potent. She had something to lose too. At least, that is what Rebecca thought. Little did she know, Katherine was solving a mystery backstage.
Recovering himself, Leslie nodded and began to flip forward the binder, skipping several pages. "The manufacturing plants in Florida," he started, "showed a 4% land value increase year after year—"
"Houma," Katherine interrupted again, her voice steady, her eyes sharp. "What do we own in Houma, Louisiana?"
The silence returned, thick and uneasy. Leslie's hand trembled slightly as he rifled through the binder, sweat beginning to form under his arms as he struggled to locate the answer. He glanced in a panic at the interns standing by the walls, and they all scattered, sifting through the binders of properties. Katherine's gaze did not waver, her expression unreadable but intense. Rebecca watched the scene both curious and confused at her sister's request.
The King, who had been comfortably in charge of the meeting up until now, slowly leaned forward. His face darkened with suspicion, his voice colder than any Bellefleur child had ever heard when he addressed his youngest. "Is there something you wish to bring forward, Katie?"
The eldest boy, who was never one to miss an opportunity to needle, added, "What's in Houma?" His voice edged with curiosity.
Katherine did not reply. Her eyes avoided her father's, waiting patiently as Leslie and the army of advisors sifted through the family's endless inventory of properties. Even Frank was now nervously watching, clicking his pen like a fast clock. Katherine's silence spoke louder than any words. The tension in the room was palpable, a sudden shift in the balance of power that left everyone on edge. Young Katherine was not a lady of confrontation.
Richard Bellefleur Senior stood frozen for a moment, his eyes narrowing to cold slits. He didn't move, he didn't flinch. But his entire demeanour radiated power and fury, a force so raw it seemed to suck the very warmth from the room. When the King asked you a question, he expected an answer.
"Houma?" he repeated, his voice a raspy whisper, as though the word itself tasted of poison. "Houma."
The repetition was not a question. No, dear audience, it was a warning.
Katherine swallowed hard, but she didn't retreat. Her mind raced. She wasn't accusing him, or anyone - yet. She was only trying to understand what had happened. Surely, her father could see that?
"Dad," she began, trying to keep her voice calm, "I just think we should—"
"You think?" The King's voice sliced through the air, sharp and dangerous. "Please my genius child, do tell us what you think! I'm begging you. Eight years of you sometimes gracing us with your presence at the family meeting, and she finally speaks!" He laughed.
No one else did.
Katherine flinched but pressed on, her resolve trembling. "Dad, I'm just saying... a lot of the research on vampires was done unethically. You know that. And if we—" She hesitated for a fraction of a second, choosing her words carefully. "If we were involved in something, even indirectly... I should know. We need to know. Especially now, with people talking…"
The unspoken accusation lingered in the air, as delicate and dangerous as a strand of silk. She hadn't said it outright—hadn't mentioned her mother or the terrible thoughts Godric planted in her mind, that had haunted her since. But it was there, festering just beneath the surface.
The King's eyes darkened, his eyes becoming almost feral. "You think you're clever, don't you? Dancing around it like I can't see what you're really saying."
Katherine opened her mouth to respond, but her father cut her off with a snarl. "You want to point fingers, is that it? You want to start asking if your family's got blood on their hands?" His voice was a whip, cracking in the air.
"Dad, that's not what she's saying-" Rebecca shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"Quiet." He hissed. "I don't care what you think you know. You think I was fucking born yesterday? Those vamp experiments ten years ago were a national fucking catastrophe. If we had anything to do with that we woulda have been crucified, quartered and butchered already. You think this fucking amateur hour?"
Rebecca knew better than anyone how dangerous this conversation was becoming, how much the King loathed even the hint of scandal. "Dad, she's not trying to—"
"I said quiet, Rebecca!" The King's voice thundered, silencing her in an instant. "Your sister seemed to finally have grown some balls, so you don't gotta speak for her anymore. Ain't that a fuckin' relief."
Richard laughed again, trying to ease the tension. There were some thin smiles around the room but Rebecca and Katherine surely weren't one of them.
And then, ah, dear audience, our master of manipulation enters the fray! Richard Junior, ever eager to stir the pot, leaned back in his chair and chimed in. "We could all use a quieter Rebecca, that's for damn sure."
The King turned his gaze to his son, and for a moment, the fury shifted focus. "You shut your trap too. You don't have the brains to even understand what the fuck is going on."
Rebecca's hand shot out on the table, a desperate attempt to defuse the situation. Know it to be true: there is absolutely nothing Rebecca would not do to protect her beloved sister. "Dad, stop. She's not accusing you of anything. We just... We need to know what we're dealing with. People are asking questions. The article—"
And there it was. The article. She didn't mean to speak it into existence inside that very room, but it's hard not to when it's all one could think about. That trickly little piece that had turned the bright, searing spotlight on them all. It was going to either ruin them or set them free.
The King's eyes squinted, his nostrils flaring as he zeroed in on his eldest daughter. "Ah, the article," he said, his voice now a deadly whisper. "You think I don't know one of you fed the media that story? You think I don't know there's a Judas at this table?"
Rebecca's face paled. "I didn't—"
"I don't care what you did or didn't fucking do!" he barked, his voice rising again. "What I care about is shutting this down. No more questions about Houma. No more articles. No more fuckin' leaks! You got that? How many fuckin' times do I have to say? You control the narrative, or it controls you! And I'll be fucking dead before I become entertainment for the fucking masses." He glared around the room, daring anyone to defy him. "We are done with this. Let's come back after lunch."
Katherine, her face pale but determined, dared to speak one last time. "What will happen to Bonne Nuit?"
"Enough!" The King's fist slammed onto the table with a force that sent papers flying. "You listen to me, and you listen good. You want to keep playing detective, you're gonna find yourself out of this family. Do you understand? This isn't a fuckin' experiment Kate. I am in charge here, until the day I fuckin' die." His voice was a growl now, low and dangerous.
"But then-" Junior interrupted.
"Not today, you fucking vulture!" He barked at the eldest boy, who shrunk in his chair. "Until you three grow the fuck up my succession plan is not up for discussion. And if I catch any of you trying to sabotage everything I built ever again, you're out. Is that clear?" He stared at Rebecca with ice-cold eyes. His middle child often caught the brunt of his wrath.
Katherine said nothing, her face hardening as she stared down at the table, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Rebecca looked between them, eyes wide, torn between defending her sister and protecting herself. Richard Junior, the smirk no longer plastered on his face, looked like the cat that had caught the canary, but even he knew better than to poke the lion any further.
And so, dear audience, the curtain falls on this tense and bitter scene, as the Bellefleur family—riddled with secrets, lies, and power plays—begins to crack at the seams. What will come next, you ask?
Wait and see. Wait and see.
Let us now lift the velvet curtain for our second act on this tale, wherein we find Miss Rebecca Bellefleur, seated at luncheon in the chic confines of Nobu's private dining hall. Observe her delicate fingers toying with the food on her plate—a sign most emblematic of her mood. The feast before her, though lavish, could not tempt her appetite, for the tempestuous scene in the conference room earlier that day had soured her spirits.
Her younger sister, Katherine, had disappeared during the recess, vanishing into the bustling of New York without so much as a word. It was troubling, indeed, for Katherine's peculiar behaviours of late seemed to hint at calamities yet to come. Miss Rebecca resolved that she must uncover her sister's secrets before she find herself estranged from the family entirely.
This day, in all other respects, was as predictable as the ticking of a grandfather clock. At the far end of the table sat their father, the King patriarch, encircled by the usual fawning investment bankers. Such was his wont, to bask in the admiration of men who saw in him a golden goose. Rebecca's gaze wandered the room, her sharp mind quick to note the absence of another familiar face—her brother, Richard Junior. Now here was a mystery, for rarely did he stray far from their father's metaphorical ass, ever eager to kiss it.
Across from Rebecca sat Lisa, the family's public relations virtuoso, tablet in hand, she listed a litany of social engagements. "Starting with the St. Moritz Polo World Cup, in Switzerland,"
Herein lay the paradox of the Bellefleur clan: though they eschewed the glaring spotlight of high society, they were very meticulous in selecting their appearances. No fashion shows, no film festivals, no glittering Met Galas—such frivolities were beneath the family's cultivated reserve. Instead, they favoured quieter gatherings, far removed from the unblinking eye of public scrutiny, but yet secured their spot in the high echelon of class.
"Pass," Rebecca murmured, her tone one of weary disinterest.
"Certainly, I'll see if Richard Junior is interested. Now, for next February: I have your father for the Vienna Opera as per usual, and shall I pencil in everyone for the Super Bowl?"
Rebecca gave a perfunctory nod. "Sure."
"What about home games, since the New Orleans Stadium now has your name?"
Rebecca grunted. She had blissfully forgotten about that. "You'll have to send us an email with the dates."
Lisa prattled on about Hong Kong's Art Basel and Singapore's Yacht Show, to which Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "Are we getting a new yacht?"
"I believe so. You should go, as you like sailing."
Rebecca stifled an inward groan. She didn't feel like explaining the enormous difference between sailing a true sailor's vessel such as Switzerland, and navigating a vacation yacht, such as the Prudence. Or was it Trinity? She couldn't recall, as their family owned a few over the years. Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden arrival of her brother, Richard Junior, who swept late into the room with the air of a man certain of his welcome.
"Hell yeah," came his brash voice as he passed by. "Get me a nice condo in Singapore too, not a hotel, would ya?" He winked.
Lisa giggled like a schoolgirl, a sound that irritated Rebecca's ears. The flirty exchange was nauseating.
Rebecca hated her role as the family's hostess in this dull pageant. To her, these social events were tedious to attend, and insulting to manage. For her brother, they were opportunities—arenas where deals were struck over glasses of champagne and, perhaps, lines of blow. Rebecca, meanwhile, was expected to be the image of poise and elegance. The lady in the tea dress, ever the perfect adornment. Boring as they come. Unfuckable as it gets.
The discussion turned to the family's charitable endeavours— namely, the Bellefleur Foundation Gala, a subdued yet significant affair. Though she harboured no illusions about the family's motives for such an event. What once began as a genuine cause championed by their late mother, the gala was now merely a convenient mechanism for tax avoidance.
"What's Samantha LeBlanc planning for this year?" Rebecca inquired. She had enlisted her friend to orchestrate the event, as per Sam's request to save her from the dull bore of her stay-at-home wife life. She didn't think twice, as it would also save her from her duties as the family's hostess.
"A Bridgerton theme," Lisa replied with enthusiasm.
"Kate and I will attend, as will my friends. Get us a professional hair and makeup, and designer for the custom gowns. Oh, and no black dresses for me as per usual."
Black was for funerals.
The conversation meandered to the auction of family heirlooms, a yearly sacrifice to the Tax Collector. "Perfect. Now all I need is for you to choose which family items the Foundation will auction off, so we can incorporate them into the promotion."
"Dad," Rebecca called out across the table. "Lisa wants to know what family heirlooms you want to sacrifice to the IRS Gods."
"Oh," he rolled his eyes. Such decisions were beneath him. "I don't know. Another Patek Philippe?"
"You did that last year already."
"What's in the Cartier Vault, Frank?" He looked around the room. "Where's Frank?"
"Let me check," Leslie quickly pulled out his phone, eager to please His Majesty.
"Just pick one of my mom's necklaces or something," Richard decided, not wanting to spend another second on the topic of jewellery.
"Really dad? Grandma's stuff?"
"Why? Do you want any of it?"
"Fine," Rebecca whined. One thing was true: Caroline Bellefleur had a tacky taste in jewelry. "I'll go down to the vault and pick something."
And so, the scene fades to black, dear spectators, leaving us to wonder: will Miss Rebecca's rebellion against the gilded cage of her family's expectations ever find its resolution? Or shall she forever be bound to the stage, playing a role she so despises? It would all come down to this afternoon's court: to keep or not to keep Bonne Nuit?
Shh! Stay quiet. The next part of this sordid drama unfolds not in a grand conference room or a private fine dining restaurant, but within the most unremarkable of stages—the gentlemen's washroom. While the rest of the cast went to Nobu, two important figures stayed at the tower for five minutes longer for a very secret meeting.
Here, amidst the echo of porcelain and the hiss of water, the stakes were no less high than the duels before. At center stage, we find Richard Augustus Bellefleur Junior, his expression a mingling of irritation and anticipation that spoke volumes as he waited in the sterile solitude.
The door swung open with a creak, entering none other than Frank Davis, the family's esteemed legal council. Junior acknowledged him with a curt nod, signalling that no prying ears lingered within the stalls. Then, the lawyer locked the door behind with an ominous click.
"Dude, what the hell was that?" Junior asked sharply.
"I honestly don't fucking know," he shrugged, yanking a paper towel from the dispenser to dab the sweat gathering on his forehead.
"Well, you fucking should!" Junior's irritation swelled like a storm cloud.
Ah, dear audience, a brief interlude for exposition: Junior was the only Bellefleur member to reside outside the moss-draped oaks of Louisiana, having ensconced himself in Boston. Someone had to keep strategic proximity to other pharmaceutical headquarters and New York's investors on behalf of Bellefleur Tech, and Richard Senior entrusted Junior with this duty. However, his physical distance loosened his iron grip on familial affairs, leading him to make a secret pact with Frank Davies. He had promised the lawyer a coveted board seat in the family trust upon his succession, in exchange for clandestine updates on the family's affairs.
And now, back to the fray: Frank, discarded his soggy paper towel, then proceeded to crank open on every tap in the room. The hissing sound of water would hopefully safeguard against eavesdroppers, for what he was about to divulge must remain an absolute secret.
"Sorry, I was too fucking busy writing your father's will."
Junior gasped. "Son of a bitch! Dad finally wrote the goddamn thing?"
A torrent of emotions—exhilaration, dread, greed—rushed through him, rendering him as taut as a violin string.
Frank opened the final tap and fixed Junior with a grave expression.
"So, who is it? Who will take over Dad?" Junior demanded.
Frank hesitated. "It's not that simple."
"Fuck you, it's not that simple! Who is it? It's me or her."
Frank, the consummate dramatist, shook his head. "The will has a different structure. The family name is important to your father. He doesn't want the Bellefleur legacy to die in any of your hands. He's a family man, you know that, and what he wants is for you to understand what is at stake."
Now let us pause to savour Junior's expression at this revelation. His heart halted mid-beat; his world teetered on the brink. This was not the triumphant win he had hoped. It was supposed to be him. It was always supposed to be the eldest son. Surely Richard Senior - a man of his generation and loyal to familial customs would see that.
"The company will go to whoever has the first Bellefleur child."
"You have got to be fucking joking," Junior bellowed, his voice reverberating off the tiled walls.
Frank, the pragmatist, shushed him with a raised hand. "A legitimate child," he clarified. "Biologically yours, born from a good marriage, one that Richard approves."
Could he, the only male heir have the advantage? "With the Bellefleur name?"
"Preferably, but not necessarily."
"What the fuck? Why?"
"Because he believes having a child is the only way you'll grow up, and realize what it's all for."
Here, the plot took a most curious turn. Junior's mind, ever calculating, seized upon the implications. Marriage to a person of his father's approval and the production of heirs—it was an ancient formula, draped in the trappings of modernity. It was different, but to be expected of the old man.
"In this case… It's gotta be me. Kate is too asexual or autistic or whatever, and Becca is ran through and expired."
Frank arched a skeptical brow. "I wouldn't underestimate Rebecca. If she finds out about the terms of this will, she'll have a ring on her finger in a week. You know that. There are plenty of agreeable puppy dogs from her Wharton cohort alone."
"Shit."
"Yeah, shit."
Junior exhaled sharply, his heart heavy with fear. "Well, what am I supposed to do? Cockblock my sister for the foreseeable future?"
But see, Junior had tried that in his youth! He had spread rumours and falsehoods about his sister among his friends, hoping to dampen their infatuation with Rebecca. But those scoundrels possessed no loyalty, and his sister possessed a charm both intoxicating and maddening to any hot-blooded man. She was the Marilyn Monroe of New Orleans, though luckless in anchoring any serious suitor. Albeit, she seemed unaware of the stakes.
"Good luck," Frank chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. "Just don't do anything stupid, okay? He can re-write his will at any time."
And so, the real race had begun—not for riches, nor for power, but for the favour of their father's final decree. Junior, ever the competitor, readied himself for the race, his resolve as fiery as the Olympic torch of ambition he carries. Luckily for him - he was a track star.
For our final act, we return to the grand office up in the skies of New York. The characters stride across the polished floors like players in a theatre, each movement deliberate, each glance heavy with meaning. The air is tense, laden with unspoken ambitions and looming betrayal. The scene unfolds as the children and their trusted advisors assemble around the conference table more. The space itself seemed to hold its breath as Richard Senior, the patriarch, finally took his place upon the throne-like chair at the head of the vast table.
Leslie began his proclamation with the gravity of a herald addressing a royal court. "Welcome back, everyone. Now let's get to the meaty part of the day. The business review."
This annual ritual was as unchanging as the tides. It began with a sweeping overview of the Bellefleur Tech dominion before delving into the individual performance of its eighteen subsidiary realms. Each company stood in judgment, its successes lauded, its failures dissected, and Bonne Nuit, as always, lingered near the end of the roll call.
Katherine's gaze wandered, her mind escaping into the intricate knots and wood grains of the mahogany table before her. Her expression was vacant, a mask of disinterest as she floated far from the present, reliving her father's harsh words in self-punishment. Rebecca, by contrast, sat alert, her sharp mind dissecting every word Leslie uttered, searching for the hidden truths behind her father's intentions for Bonne Nuit. Even Richard Junior, who typically indulged in his own distractions, appeared focused, his face shadowed with morbid curiosity.
At the head of the table, Richard Senior watched with an air of contentment, though the permanent furrow of his brow hinted at the weight of the decisions that lay ahead. His demeanour, serene yet inscrutable, cast a spell over the room.
Leslie pressed on, presenting the year's triumphs and tribulations. The Bellefleur Tech empire had fared well overall, its fortunes sailing steady seas, with no subsidiary veering too far from projected outcomes. He offered a nod of recognition to Rebecca for deftly avoiding a disastrous acquisition in Singapore—Mei Lin was now floundering in scandal and legal troubles overseas.
"Still," Richard Senior interjected, cutting short any celebration, "we need to find a way into the Asian market." His words brushed past Rebecca like a stray breeze, dismissing her moment of triumph before it could bloom.
The time came for Bonne Nuit to step into the spotlight, its fate dangling precariously over the abyss. Leslie opened a new dossier and began his verdict. "As for Bonne Nuit, we received their official acquisition offer earlier this week…"
Katherine's head snapped up, her disinterest dissipating like morning mist. Rebecca, too, leaned forward, her pulse quickening as Leslie detailed the terms of the proposal: "Sixty-three dollars a share, a Bellefleur Tech board seat, all the patents held by Bonne Nuit along with a few others…"
Rebecca's stomach sank. The offer was less than what Northman had promised in their last meeting at Rosie's veranda. To her father, the notion of a board seat was sacrilege, an insult to the Bellefleur legacy. She braced herself for the inevitable storm.
"A board seat—" Richard Senior began, his voice laden with skepticism, but young Katherine interrupted yet again, her voice cutting through the room like the ring of a bell.
"What patents?"
Leslie scanned his papers, his finger trailing over the lines of text until he found the answer. "Ah…Particle-packed Fiber Article, Universal Multi-coordinate Sensor, and Ophthalmic Nanoformulation CB3."
"That's Calantica," Rebecca declared to her sister. "That's what they want."
Richard Senior straightened in his chair, his expression darkening. "No," he said, the single word landing with the finality of a gavel striking wood. The room fell into a heavy silence.
Rebecca and Katherine exchanged glances across the table, their eyes wide with a mix of shock, relief, and confusion. Could this moment herald a turning point? Were they saved by Northman's greed?
"Well, you might want to consider a counteroffer, sir." Leslie attempted to press on, but Rebecca's voice rose with a sharp edge of defiance.
"Am I hallucinating these numbers behind you? We had one hell of a year, and are projected 21% growth next year. We will be the top performer next year, why the hell would we sell?"
Leslie, unflinching, slid another document across the table. "Your glass suppliers have been bought out, Miss Bellfleur."
Rebecca snatched the paper as if it might burst into flames at any moment. "What?!"
"By who?" Katherine asked her voice tight with alarm.
"Plenches Loirs Limited," Leslie replied.
Richard Junior chuckled, leaning back with a smug grin. "Does this mean Kate will finally work for me?"
Rebecca's voice rose an octave, ignoring her idiot brother. "Who the hell is Plenches Loirs? "
"What the hell does that even mean?" Dick asked, now curious about the curfuffle.
"I couldn't find too much information on it, but they are an American Company."
"You can't be serious," Rebecca's voice was high-pitched.
"It checks out, unfortunately," Leslie explained with the detached professionalism of a physician delivering grim news. "You closed a huge deal with the Louvre very publically, someone saw the demand and decided to participate in the pipeline. They bought it way over market value, so Plenches Loir will try to recoup costs. The chances that your profit margins will be much slimmer are high. You'll be lucky to get double digits."
The room simmered with tension, each Bellefleur weighing the implications. Richard Senior's voice cut through the cacophony of thoughts. "Make it sixty-eight dollars a share. No board seat. No Calantica. We'll consider other patents."
"Dad!" Rebecca's voice was a plea, trembling with disbelief. "That's exactly what they want!"
"Yes, sweetheart," Richard replied coolly. "That's how negotiations work."
"It's better to sell high while you can," Leslie interjected. "You use very specific and niche materials that aren't easy to find. If your suppliers backstab you, your market value will be zero."
Before Rebecca could respond, Katherine spoke again, her voice steady but tinged with a quiet defiance. "We're pivoting."
The room froze. All eyes turned to her, their expressions a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
"Pivoting?" Richard Senior asked, his tone skeptical.
"Y-yes," Katherine replied, clearing her throat. "Bonne Nuit's vision isn't to make glass. We're not a glass company."
"You're not?" Junior sneered.
"No. Our vision is to remove societal barriers vampires face in order to live peacefully among humans. Creating safe living arrangements is one way we have done that, but there is a much more profound method of giving them living equality."
"What are you saying?"
"Sunscreen," she said simply. "If there is a way I can make the sun harmless to them, vampires can live among us."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room. Junior laughed in disbelief. "Are you out of your fucking mind? The fact they can't come out during the day is what gives people a piece of mind."
Katherine's reply was razor-sharp. "The world has never known peace of mind, Richie. And their bigotry isn't my problem, is it?
"If you can pivot your marketing and sales teams, Bellefleur Tech does have plenty of resources for CPG manufacturing, warehousing and distribution," a Bellefleur Tech VP pipped up from the corner of the room.
Richard turned in his throne to look at him. "What do you think?"
"It sounds promising if they can pull it off. It would create a lot of hype, that's for sure."
Hype was made of gold, dear audience.
"I worry it's fickle," Richard grunted. "Tying our stock to the public acceptance of vampires... We would be another Russell Edgington away from being stormed by a mob with pitchforks and torches if we seem too vampire-friendly."
Richard Senior's face remained impassive, his mind clearly churning. Finally, he spoke: "Drag out the negotiations. Let's see if this sunscreen idea is feasible. Let's move on."
The scene closes with tension, the fate of Bonne Nuit teetering on the edge. As the curtains fall to a close, we leave the audience to wonder: What will become of this embattled house? At what heights will the Bellefleur girls go to impede the loss of their mother's legacy?
Please come back, don't stray too far, and pay attention, ladies and gentlemen, for higher they go
The harder the fall.
An:
*Leonardo Di Caprio getting up from his seat and pointing at the TV* "She said it! She said the title of the fic!"
This was a weird one that took forever to write, and I hope you were at least entretained by my narration switcharoo (it will go back to normal next chapter). I hope everyone had a nice winter and holiday break, I will be writting as much as I can before I return to academic jail.
xoxo
Spice