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"So you're Charlize Theron?" Cruella asked, already reaching out to pinch and prod her face. "Any costic work done?"
Charlize didn't slap her hand away, but her expression turned cold.
"No money. No surgery."
"Hollywood, hm." Cruella even removed her gloves and began feeling along Charlize's figure without hesitation. "I do need a proper clothes hanger—soone who can carry a the—for ads and editorial shoots.
"If you cooperate, providing you with gowns won't be a problem. As for how long… that depends on your performance."
---
J.J. Harris quickly stopped Charlize from responding and stepped forward instead.
"If my client is to shoot advertisents and editorials, how are you planning to structure compensation?"
Cruella glanced at her with clear disdain.
"And you are?"
"J.J. Harris. Charlize Theron's agent. And don't even think about suggesting unpaid work. If you damage her comrcial value, it won't reflect well on your brand either."
---
Fashion wasn't like film.
In film, producers and directors prided themselves on doing more with less—small budgets, big results. What happened inside large productions was another matter entirely.
But fashion?
Fashion never asked how to save money.
It asked how to spend it—and spend it lavishly.
Luxury was built on excess: materials, labor, marketing. If those were cheap, the product itself couldn't claim to be high-end.
So if Cruella had Charlize work for free, she'd devalue her own brand—and drag Charlize's market value down with it.
A lose-lose scenario.
---
Cruella understood that perfectly.
Which ant she couldn't argue.
"Tch. Sharp agent," she muttered.
---
At this point, it was no longer Givenchy's place to intervene.
His role was done.
As for supporting Cruella's inheritance claim, a verbal stance was enough—no contracts required.
So he let the three won continue their verbal duel and led the n toward a small bar table in the eting room.
---
These rooms were often used for private negotiations during events, so they were stocked with upside-down clean glasses and bottles of whisky and brandy.
Givenchy poured drinks for everyone.
Introductions followed.
Henry spoke first:
"I'm Henry Brown, CEO of Stark Pictures. A pleasure to et you both."
The tall, thin man tipped his hat.
"Jasper Badun."
The shorter, heavier one removed his hat and attempted a polite bow.
"Horace Badun."
Henry raised a brow. "Brothers?"
They exchanged a glance and shook their heads.
"No. Orphans. The nun who took us in gave us the sa surna. Whether we're actually related… we don't know."
Henry nodded.
"Fair enough. No offense—but my background isn't much different. Unknown parents. Sa story.
"So we rely on ourselves, right?"
They clinked glasses.
---
Henry took a sip, then asked:
"So what exactly do you do for Ms. de Vil?"
Jasper answered, glancing at Horace:
"Officially, assistants. In reality? Everything that isn't design.
"Cruella's brilliant—but her mouth gets her into trouble. Without us as muscle, she'd have been beaten to death by now."
Henry blinked.
"…You're more honest than I expected."
Horace shrugged.
"You could say that in front of her too. She wouldn't care. At most, she'd treat it like background noise."
Jasper nodded in agreent.
---
Givenchy raised his glass.
"A designer having conviction is not a bad thing. If you let critics sway you too easily, you lose your vision—and eventually yourself."
They drank.
---
Henry glanced toward the won.
The argunt had escalated—fast.
Even as Charlize's agent, J.J. should have handled things alone.
But Cruella's presence was overwhelming. Her tone relentless.
It took both won just to hold their ground.
And Cruella's words?
Infuriating.
Charlize had already snapped back several tis, unable to stay silent.
---
"They'll be okay… right?" Henry muttered.
Jasper waved it off.
"Relax. Cruella doesn't hit first. Unless soone else does."
Henry frowned.
"She's always like this… in collaborations?"
Horace answered bluntly:
"No. No one can tolerate her.
"Outside of runway shows—where models are contractually obligated—she wears her own designs and shoots her own editorials."
That… made perfect sense.
---
Henry turned to Givenchy.
The older man raised both hands quickly.
"I had no idea it was this bad. I only heard she was looking for a brand ambassador recently—that's why I recomnded her."
Horace added, unfiltered as ever:
"She's in her forties now. Even with good maintenance, she can't compete with younger faces.
"I've been telling her to get a proper representative instead of doing everything herself."
---
"—They're fighting! They're fighting!" Philippe suddenly shouted, slapping Henry's arm.
Henry turned—
Just in ti to see it.
Cruella had already thrown a punch.
Charlize's hands were raised like claws, teeth clenched, ready to go for the face.
Only J.J. Harris, risking her life in between them, was barely holding the line.
---
Henry moved instantly.
He hoisted Charlize over his shoulder and pulled her back.
The Badun brothers grabbed Cruella and dragged her away as well.
Distance—finally.
No physical fight.
---
But distance didn't cool anything down.
If anything—
Without fists, their words got sharper.
Much sharper.
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