She sneered at my worn coat, not knowing I was about to buy the

I did not argue. I simply asked, very softly, if the store manager was available. Brielle rolled her eyes and said he was far too busy for walk-ins like me, then suggested I leave before she called security. A small crowd of tourists had gathered near the handbag wall, phones half raised, sensing something. I took my phone from my pocket, the cracked flip model I kept for sentimental reasons, and dialed one number. “Giovanni,” I said gently, “it’s Eleanor. I’m standing inside the flagship. I’d like you here in three minutes, please.” Brielle laughed openly. “Giovanni? As in Giovanni Marchetti? Honey, he doesn’t know you exist.” The elevator behind the counter chimed. Giovanni Marchetti stepped out in a charcoal suit, took one look at me, and his face went white. He crossed the floor in six long strides, took my hand in both of his, and bowed slightly. “Mrs. Hayes. I am so sorry we kept you waiting. The remodel of the east wing is on schedule, exactly as you requested.” The tourists gasped. Brielle’s smile collapsed like wet paper. Giovanni turned to her, his voice colder than the air conditioning. “Brielle, this is Eleanor Hayes. She owns the parent holding company that acquired Marchetti International last spring. She also owns this building, the one next door, and the parking structure behind it.” Brielle stammered something about not knowing, about a misunderstanding, about her rent. I lifted the ivory scarf from its display and placed it around my own shoulders. “Giovanni, please add this to my account. And effective immediately, Brielle’s services are no longer required at any of our locations. Escort her to the door with the same courtesy she offered me.” Security appeared at her elbow. She walked out past the tourists, past the phones, past the woman in the gardening coat who had simply wanted to remember her mother, in peace.