HARRISON
There are bad mornings, and then there’s this one.
I’m on my third espresso by the time Bryce Aoki shows up. She’s not on the calendar, which pisses off our front desk—but Bryce doesn’t give a s**t about protocol. She never has.
She walks in wearing black silk pants, platform boots, a cherry red jacket, and the kind of oversized sunglasses that scream “try me.” Her nails are long, sharp, and painted matte black. There’s a sleek briefcase in her left hand and a flash drive between two fingers in her right.
Never a good sign.
“Got five minutes?” she says, breezing into my office like she owns the place.
“For you?” I stand and gesture toward the chair. “Always.”
Bryce has been one of VT’s highest-profile clients for two years. She runs a luxury beauty brand that started as You
