Book Excerpt: The Outside Sales Villain
This isn’t your typical, feel-good sales book. This is war—and you're either closing deals or getting closed.
Victor Kane isn’t just a master manipulator; he’s a predator in a tailored suit, someone who enjoys the psychological destruction he leaves behind:
The office smelled of fear.
Victor Kane could always tell. It
had a different scent than sweat—thicker, almost metallic. Desperation was the
same in every language, and tonight, it was rolling off Jerry Finch in waves.
Victor smiled. Slow. Calculated.
Like a snake tasting the air before the strike.
Across the desk, Finch gripped the
pen like it was the last thing tethering him to reality. His eyes darted
between the contract and the clock on the wall, like time itself could save
him. Victor let him have his illusions. They made the fall even sweeter.
“I just… I need to think about it,” Finch
stammered.
Victor exhaled slowly, shaking his
head with the kind of deep, practiced disappointment that could make anyone
crumble.
“Jerry,” he murmured, leaning in,
voice low and steady. “Are you a man who makes decisions… or a man who lets
opportunities slip through his fingers?”
Finch swallowed hard. That flicker
of doubt—that moment of hesitation—was Victor’s playground.
“This isn’t just a deal,” Victor
continued, his tone a study in impeccable control. “This is the difference
between sitting at the table… and being on the menu.”
He let the words settle. Let Finch
feel them.
Then, softly, he chuckled.
“And right now?” Victor’s voice
dropped, just for effect. "Right now, you’re looking an awful lot like
lunch."
Finch blinked. Confused. Frightened.
That sweet, intoxicating blend.
Victor tapped the pen against the
contract. A small sound, but somehow, it landed like a hammer in the silence. “Mr.
Finch,” he murmured, flipping the contract toward the man. “We’re wasting time.
And time, as you know, is a luxury you no longer have.”
“You already know what to do.”
The poor bastard swallowed hard,
eyes darting to the clock on the wall like it might somehow slow down. Victor
let him have his illusion. Let him think he still had a choice.
Then he leaned in. Close enough that
Finch could smell the cologne, the money, the power—the scent of someone who
never heard the word ‘no.’
Finch exhaled sharply, then—a broken
nod. The moment Victor had been waiting for.
Victor watched, eyes sharp as a
blade, as the man finally signed away whatever was left of himself.
Beautiful.
Victor plucked the contract from the
desk, sliding it into his briefcase with all the care of a man collecting a
trophy.
Then he stood, smoothing the lapels
of his suit. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Finch just sat there, staring at the
paper like it had stolen his soul.
Maybe it had.
Victor turned toward the door, but
just before stepping out, he glanced back, his voice soft, just above a whisper
“I could have sold this to anyone, but
I chose you. Do you know why?”
Finch shook his head, sweat beading
at his temples.
“Because you were easy,” Victor said
simply.
Jerry flinched. A pathetic, delicious
reaction.
“Oh, and Jerry?” He tilted his head,
watching his resistance fade like smoldering embers.
“You belong to me now.”
Then he was gone, leaving nothing
behind but the scent of expensive cologne, the echo of his words, and a silence
so heavy it felt like a noose.
Available now—before we convince you
to pay more for it later.
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