By the next morning, phones rang unanswered throughout Sterling Parfums. Employees hurried past my office with files pressed to their chests and without meeting my eyes.
Our share price had plunged at the opening bell, while distributors filled my inbox with demands for explanations.
I sat at my desk with the gold-embossed invitation from Paris in front of me. The door opened.
Chloe came in wearing yesterday’s dress, her face swollen from crying, and dropped a stack of printouts on my desk.
“Arthur, I have a plan. We issue a press release and blame a contaminated supply chain. We’ll call it industrial sabotage. Then we sue the supplier and give the press something else to chase.”
I looked at the woman I had put on a global stage and called a genius.
Not one of her printouts contained
