The private café in Mayfair was quiet enough to hear a sigh.
Tucked off a narrow lane frequented only by chauffeurs and those who didn't need to Google their dinner reservations, the place felt like a whisper—intentional, selective.
The air smelled faintly of cardamom and oiled leather.
Laurent Virelli sat with his blazer draped neatly over the back of his chair, white shirt cufflinks gleaming.
In front of him, a modest spread: untouched espresso, a few notes scribbled on a legal pad, and two sharply dressed men representing Aston Martin's Global Brand Expansion Team.
The conversation hadn't been rushed, but it had become surgical.
"You need momentum," Laurent said, leaning back, eyes calm but blade-sharp after he had set aside his phone.
"Miranda is playing for exclusivity. She's slow-rolling you because she wants leverage—maybe another offer to play against yours. But let's not pretend. If you want Izan fronting the wheel, you can't afford to wait."
