She sneered at my worn coat and told me to leave — 40 seconds

Vivienne mistook the smile for shame. She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume, and hissed that people like me made the store look cheap, that I should pick up the tissue paper I’d apparently knocked off a shelf, and do it on my knees where the cameras could see me learn my place. She dropped a crumpled receipt at my feet for emphasis. I didn’t move. The manager, Damien, appeared behind her, pale, holding a tablet, whispering that the twelve o’clock VIP had arrived and no one could locate her. Vivienne waved him off without looking. She told me she was going to count to five. She got to three. The chrome doors slid open and a tall man in a charcoal suit walked in flanked by two assistants — the Global CEO of the entire fashion house, in town for one appointment only. He scanned the room, saw me, and his whole face changed. He crossed the marble in eight strides, stopped in front of me, and bowed his head slightly. “Ms. Rowan. I am so sorry we kept you waiting. The board is upstairs, and the acquisition papers are ready for your signature whenever you are.” Vivienne’s hand was still mid-air, mid-snap. Damien made a small choking sound. The CEO finally turned, followed Vivienne’s frozen gaze down to the receipt at my feet, and asked, very quietly, who had thrown trash at the majority shareholder of the parent company that had, as of this morning, just bought his brand.