On her third day in Paris, Bella met the two old men who controlled every last share of Chanel.
Her public persona needed sufficient social cachet, and Chanel's prestige was neither too large nor too small—just right for her to take the reins.
The two old Jewish gentlemen had run Chanel into the ground. They were more than happy to offload what they now considered an asset too burdensome to keep yet too valuable to toss and free up capital for their other ventures.
Both sides probed and parried, testing each other's bottom line, until Bella paid €215 million to swallow up every share the brothers held, formally taking control of this French company with over ninety years of history.
Chanel wasn't publicly traded. Its shareholding structure was clean and simple.
Alain Wertheimer and Gérard Wertheimer were discreet to an almost unbelievable degree. No press conference, no signing ceremony, nothing. Their respective business teams had already negotiated for months beforehand, and once the final figures and contractual terms were locked in, Bella and the Wertheimer brothers each signed the agreement. The deal was done.
The money Bella had laundered from "selling off" Yutani was now more than half spent. The Wertheimer brothers, meanwhile, had finally shed the fashion brand that had been equal parts beloved and burdensome, walking away with a pile of cash they could pour into salvaging their remaining ventures. Both sides got what they wanted.
"I hope we'll have opportunities to work together in the future." The two old men had sharp business instincts and considerable skill, but their management style simply wasn't suited to running a fashion brand like Chanel.
At the moment, both were all smiles and generous compliments, heaping praise on Bella.
"Of course. You're both veterans of the industry. I still have a great deal to learn from you." Bella offered her own share of polite pleasantries.
After the obligatory round of corporate flattery, the two men bid their courteous farewells. As of today, the French fashion house called Chanel had absolutely nothing to do with them anymore.
They left without looking back. Watching their cars pull away from Chanel headquarters, Bella allowed the faintest smirk of a domineering CEO to settle across her face.
In a capitalist society, money was everything. The title of "bestselling author" carried too little weight; "billionaire" was far more appropriate.
Selling guns and ammunition invited criticism. Selling women's fashion and perfume? Far fewer complications.
As a fashion icon, owning a world-famous luxury brand would make Bella's public image that much more perfect.
Natasha had been dressed the part of a secretary all day—short skirt, high heels, the whole look. Once the two old men departed, she stretched lazily and dropped right into Bella's chair, looking for all the world like she was the boss.
"I'm exhausted. These heels are way too high. Rub my feet."
You're the pregnant one—you're the boss! Bella immediately shelved the domineering CEO act and scurried over to dutifully massage her wife's feet.
The baby was only a month along, and neither of them dared do anything strenuous. But a little kissing and touching was perfectly fine. And where were they? This was Paris, the city of romance. A domineering CEO rubbing her pretty secretary's feet? Perfectly natural. Don't ask—it's art.
Art aside, there was real work to be done.
In this timeline, Karl Lagerfeld didn't exist. Chanel's once-stellar hand had been played into the ground.
The two old men had cycled through designer after designer, but none could so much as maintain Gabrielle Chanel's legacy, let alone extend it.
Bella and Natasha knew how to buy things—experts at that. But ask them to design handbags or clothing? They wouldn't know where to start. Bella possessed Isu cells, but not a single artistic one.
Her strategy was simple: identify the company's future direction, ignore fanciful design concepts, and hire people who'd already proven themselves.
She hired Tom Ford as Chanel's Creative Director.
Ford's résumé was immaculate. Starting in 1990, he'd served as Gucci's Creative Director, won a stack of awards, and taken the same role at Saint Laurent by 2000. He was, by any measure, one of the industry's top designers.
But the temperament of an artist made his mind restless. Last year, on a whim, he'd quit his job and gone to Hollywood to start a film production company.
The results spoke for themselves. Last year's earthquake-tsunami-alien triple whammy wiped out over a decade of savings. After Bella helped him deal with a pack of Mafia debt collectors, she extended an olive branch in the form of equity plus salary.
The designer was sorted. Now she needed a CEO—Bella had no intention of commuting to Paris every day.
She stood alone on the top floor of Chanel headquarters, dressed in a standard corporate power ensemble. When she heard footsteps behind her, she turned slowly.
A young man with a vaguely insolent expression and a devil-may-care air strolled into the room.
No tie. Collar open. His suit was finely tailored, but the way he wore it radiated pure nonchalance.
This was Bella's handpicked CEO: Roderick Kingsley, from New York.
Without Bella's intervention, he would eventually have stolen the Goblin Formula and a glider to become one of Spider-Man's major enemies—the Hobgoblin.
A month ago, Roderick Kingsley had been a billionaire. A rival's frame job had stripped him of everything—his fortune, his reputation—and he'd come within a hair's breadth of prison.
American prisons were no picnic. A pretty boy like Roderick Kingsley would have suffered enormously inside. Fortunately, Bella had sent people to make his legal troubles disappear at the last possible moment.
His personality was an odd cocktail: extreme yet fragile, timid yet desperate to be feared. A walking contradiction.
His fashion sense was exceptional by civilian standards, and the ability to build a billion-dollar empire from nothing—despite glaring character flaws—was proof enough of his business acumen.
Bella handed Chanel's operations to Roderick Kingsley and its creative development to Tom Ford. One was a New Yorker, the other a Texan. She paired them up with modest expectations: she wasn't asking them to match the Chanel of her previous life, but could they at least stop letting Dior grind their face into the dirt every single day?
"Mr. Ford, what changes does our design team need?" After summoning both men, Natasha, still in her secretary role, poured each a coffee before Bella spoke.
Even after being rescued, Roderick Kingsley kept up the devil-may-care facade, apparently masking the weakness underneath. He'd propped both feet on the conference table and leaned back, completely ignoring Bella.
Tom Ford, at least, knew how to act like an employee. He lowered his head in thought for a moment. "Honestly? There's a lot to fix. Our direction isn't clear, I can barely see any development strategy, and the target demographic? Nobody's even defined one..."