It was a long table. They were at the penthouse—and the dining area stretched beneath the high glass ceiling with the city sprawled below like a carpet of light and naked ambition.
Emily opened her eyes. Looked at the screen. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at Phei.
"Zata Fashion Group," she said.
The table went attentive.
"They want you for their new sneaker line and the sports attire collection they just launched." She scrolled. Read. Scrolled again. "Full campaign. Print, digital, video. They want your face, your body, and apparently—" She squinted. "—your lifestyle aesthetic, whatever the hell that means."
"How much?" Phei asked.
Emily counted zeros. Her lips moved silently.
"Seven hundred thousand," she said. "But I know—I know—with negotiation we can push them to eight. Their initial offer is always fifteen to twenty percent below their ceiling. That's standard for Zata."
Phei looked at Melissa.
