Phoenix In Prada

Chapter Six: Q1 Goals and Viral Chaos

PHOENIX IN PRADA

— NATHALIE —

The Ashford-Harrison boardroom smelled like mahogany, old money, and the collective anxiety of twenty men in suits who hadn't seen a woman in power since approximately the 1950s.

Victoria sat at the head of the table looking like she'd spent the morning sharpening her teeth. Across from her, my father looked weary in the way of a man watching something he'd built being slowly dismantled. The hostile takeover was in full swing. According to the original book, this was the meeting where the Ashfords were supposed to bleed us dry.

The heavy double doors swung open.

Emma and I walked in. I was wearing a suit so sharp it could draw blood. Emma was trailing behind me filming on a vintage camera she'd bullied a staff member into holding.

"Clara? Emma?" Victoria's voice was a low growl. "This is a private board meeting. Not a debutante ball."

"Actually Victoria," Emma said, tossing her hair with the practiced ease of someone who had once done it in front of three million people simultaneously, "we're here for the collab."

"The what?"

"The strategic alignment," I said, sliding into the chair beside my father and opening my laptop. I had spent all night loading it with data visualizations that would have made my old spreadsheet-obsessed self weep with pride. "We've reviewed the proposed merger terms. Honestly? The ROI is mid. Your growth projections are giving bankrupt-by-Q4 energy, and your brand identity is—" I tilted my head. "It's a flop, Victoria."

The room went silent. You could have heard a pin drop on the Persian rug.

"Mid?" my father whispered.

— EMMA —

I watched Victoria's face cycle through approximately six expressions before settling on a shade of puce that was genuinely unflattering on anyone.

Engagement is peaking, I thought instinctively. If I had my ring light right now I'd be trending.

"What is the meaning of this?" Victoria's hand hit the table. "Emma, get out before I have Pete drag you to the car. You don't know the first thing about the textile industry."

"Actually sis," I said, examining my nails with the calm of a woman who had survived seventeen brand crises and one very public mushroom incident, "I know that your current marketing strategy is Gatekeep, Girlboss, Gaslight. And while that's a classic, it doesn't sell fabric to the Gen Z demographic. You're missing the viral hook entirely. You're not an Iconic Heritage Brand. You're just old."

I looked at Nathalie. That was her cue.

Nathalie clicked a button. A bright, colorful chart appeared on the wall-mounted screen — heat maps, conversion funnels, and a pastel color palette I had personally insisted on because data hits different when it's aesthetically pleasing.

"As the majority stakeholder's heir," Nathalie said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm Senior Manager register, "I am vetoing the current merger terms. We're pivoting to a direct-to-consumer model with a focus on sustainable luxury. Emma heads creative marketing. I oversee operational restructuring."

"You can't do that!" A board member in the corner half-rose from his chair. "You're just—"

Nathalie didn't even look at him. She adjusted her glasses. "I'm a girl with a VLOOKUP that shows you've been embezzling from the pension fund for three years, Gerald. Sit down before I cancel your career."

Gerald sat down. Immediately. With the energy of a man who had just remembered every bad decision he'd ever made.

— NATHALIE —

I felt a rush of pure dopamine.

In my old life I had been the one making the charts for men who took the credit. I had built the models, run the numbers, formatted the decks, and then sat quietly in the back of the room while someone else presented my work and got the applause.

Now I was the one holding the remote.

"You're eating," Emma whispered, leaning over. "No crumbs left. Keep going. Main character energy."

I cleared my throat. "To summarize the strategic direction for the upcoming quarter: we are optimizing the supply chain, cutting the dead weight —" I looked at Victoria, "— and building a high-conversion digital presence. Any questions? Or should we move straight to the Ask Me Anything portion?"

Victoria had gone very still in the way of a woman deciding between fury and strategy. "You think you can walk in here with your strange words and your colorful pictures and just take over? This is a business. Not a social club."

"Business is a social club, Victoria," I said, closing my laptop with a satisfying click and standing up. "You just forgot to update your membership. Don't worry. We'll send the exit package. It's very aesthetic."

— EMMA —

We walked out of that boardroom like we were closing a fashion week show.

The moment the elevator doors slid shut we both screamed. The full hysterical release of two women who had just successfully improvised a hostile counter-takeover using data visualization and influencer theory.

"GERALD!" I wheezed, doubled over. "You called him Gerald and told him he was canceled! I watched his soul leave his body in real time!"

"I used the hostile takeover template I saved to my Google Drive in 2022!" Nathalie shouted. "It actually worked! These people have never heard of a pivot to video in their lives!"

We leaned against opposite walls of the elevator, catching our breath.

"James has been texting all morning," Nathalie said, looking at her phone. "Fourteen missed calls. He doesn't understand why I'm hanging out with the enemy."

"He's used to the Ice Queen versus the Villainess," I said. "He isn't ready for the Corporate Powerhouse Duo."

"We should take him to brunch."

"And Pete," I added. "I want to show Pete a meme and see if I can make him smile. It has become my primary life objective."

Nathalie considered this. "A brunch with the CEO's daughter, the influencer, the monument, and the gargoyle. That sounds like a terrible idea."

"Exactly," I said. "Let's go."