The Grand Palais was yesterday’s battlefield. Today, my suite at the Plaza Athénée was the war room. The delicate scent of white roses filling the air was a sharp contrast to the smell of blood in the water. Victory wasn't a time for celebration; it was a window of opportunity to press the advantage until nothing remained of the enemy but scorched earth.
My phone was a conduit for quiet destruction. Dante sat opposite me at the Louis XVI table, a laptop open, our legal team on a secure conference line from Milan. We weren’t raising our voices. We didn’t need to. The most devastating blows are delivered with surgical precision.
“The lace makers in Calais?” I asked, my gaze fixed on the spreadsheet Dante had projected onto the wall. “They have our offer?”
“They do,” Dante confirmed. “Excl
