Hobbs nodded. Yes, that was the case.
"Honestly, I prefer military life. It's cleaner. You follow orders, and things are either right or wrong — no gray areas, nothing to overthink. Before I joined the rescue teams, I'd already done a stint in the Navy. Comparing everything side by side, the barracks just suit me better."
In the end, Charlie gave the Black president a definite answer: he was in. He'd been a solid running mate — calling the president a liability would be unfair — but Charlie had genuinely been dragged down by the association. He wanted to take a real shot at it on his own terms. Win or lose, at least he could say he'd actually tried.
Benjamin Asher hit the ground running. He boosted military spending, dispatched White House military security advisors to American bases around the world, and sent field-grade officers into the major corporations as embedded liaisons — a move that recalled, in flavor if not in form, the ancient practice of sending palace eunuchs to supervise field armies. The idea was to use the government to control the military, and then use the military to rein in the multinationals.
He increased the defense budget. He pushed more funding into weapons research. He tightened his grip on the military while simultaneously launching a sweeping corruption investigation within the ranks.
The first two initiatives played well with almost everyone. The last two generated real opposition — though once the defense budget appropriations started flowing, a lot of the dissenting voices went quiet.
As for Monarch's second expedition into the Savage Land, Bella sat that one out entirely. By the time 2004 ended, the baby in Natasha's belly was six months along, with four months to go before the due date. She wasn't in any position to go running off on an adventure.
The birth plan was still Arendelle. Bella had set up a fully equipped operating theater there, and the Weyland-affiliated medical team on Earth would handle Natasha's delivery.
Bella set aside most of her work projects and study plans and magic practice, and dedicated herself to keeping her wife company. After Christmas, the two of them spent most of their time in Arendelle.
But running constant attendance on a pregnant woman was genuinely exhausting work. Natasha had always had a difficult temperament. Pregnancy amplified it — and then some.
"God, she's impossible to please. I — I just need to survive two more months!" Bella came trudging back from Arendelle yet again, collapsed at home, and alternated between pounding her legs and sighing dramatically. Catering to Natasha was like catering to the Empress Dowager herself — one moment demanding water, the next moment demanding food, until Bella was dead on her feet.
When Chanel's people asked if she wanted to attend a fashion week event being held in Istanbul, she agreed without a moment's hesitation.
Fashion week was basically a parade of beautiful people. Correction: a parade of artists with an artistic sensibility. And these artists, in Bella's considered opinion, were excellent medicine for exhaustion. She'd already booked a flight to Paris before the thought was even finished, and from Paris she chartered a private plane straight to Istanbul, Turkey.
Istanbul — a city with a thousand years of history, bone-deep with it. An ancient imperial capital, and one of the most secularized countries in the Middle East to boot, which wasn't nothing.
Turkey's aspirations toward Europe hadn't exactly failed, but they hadn't succeeded the way anyone had hoped either. Domestic ethnic tensions were severe, and the government was trying various image-rehabilitation gestures. Major events — the Olympics, world expos — were beyond their organizational reach, so a fashion week at least gave them a chance to make an appearance.
Turkey paid for everything: venues, accommodation, catering. They extended free invitations to every major fashion house, purely for the exposure. That was Turkey's situation right now.
As fashion weeks went, New York, Milan, Paris, and London remained untouchable — the big four. But Istanbul and Seoul had free events, and there was no reason to pass them up. Bella's standing directive to Chanel was to cast as wide a net as possible; no branding opportunity was worth skipping.
Free room and board, all expenses covered — why not come?
Jeans and a short T-shirt were fine for ordinary life, but not at a fashion week, and especially not as the head of Chanel. The house's founder, Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel herself, had said it plainly: a woman should never wear jeans, because jeans make you look anything but elegant.
Bella wore a backless, high-neck column gown. The collar rose into a sleek black band that made her neck look longer, and the dress left her elegant shoulder blades and the porcelain-smooth skin of her back on full display. High-neck cuts worked especially well on her lean frame — on someone very busty, the cut could read as cumbersome, but on Bella it landed perfectly.
High heels, a necklace, earrings — all in place. She'd done her eyes in rose shadow, blending into a smoky, romantic haze.
The fashion week venue was buzzing. A Polish singer opened the evening, and then the models took the runway — dressed in all manner of extraordinary things.
This one has great legs.
This one could stand to develop the chest a bit more.
The eyes on that one are too small.
Bella settled into the mental posture of an emperor reviewing candidates for the imperial harem and appraised the parade of models with serene authority.
"Boss, you look stunning tonight. Would you let me take you to dinner?" Roderick Kingsley, president of the company, sidled over with an interested expression.
Bella gave him a look with just a hint of amusement. "What do you think, dear Mr. Kingsley?"
"Fair point, forget I asked. What do you make of that model over there — the one who's about 5'10" (178 cm)? Could she work for Chanel?"
"Up to you. Though I'd remind you to take care of yourself. Dying in someone's bed would be rather inconvenient."
She said it without inflection, then let the subject drop. What her subordinates did in their personal lives was their own business, and the politics of the fashion world were well beyond what she had the bandwidth to manage anyway.
After she'd had her fill of the show, she headed back to the hotel.
Chanel had an entire president and artistic director on the ground — she didn't need to work the room or play politics with anyone. The CEOs of the other major houses wouldn't attend a second-tier event like this. Even the presidents were a rarity. She'd come purely because she was bored.
"Bella?"
She was reaching for her room key when a voice called her name from behind. She turned, puzzled.
A young woman with long brown hair was watching her.
The woman's expression was barely keeping the panic in check. She was wearing a red swimsuit with an oversized button-down shirt thrown over it — no pants, no shoes — and there was still water on her feet.
Bella's memory was excellent. A single moment's recall was enough.
Three years ago. Paris. The human trafficking ring. The young woman they'd pulled out of it — she remembered the face. And the name came a beat later: "Kim?"
"Can I hide in here?" Kim's voice was urgent.
Girl, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time? Bella's expression went flat, but she answered without hesitation: "Of course. We're friends."
She unlocked the door and let Kim in.
"Where's Bryan?" Bella poured Kim a glass of water and asked about the old operative.
Kim's voice broke: "My dad was taken. It was the Albanians."