She sprayed perfume in my face and called me a homeless rat. Then her

I didn’t move. I just pulled my phone out of my hoodie pocket and pressed one contact. Vivienne rolled her eyes and started filming me on her own phone, narrating for her coworkers. “Look at this, girls, the homeless lady thinks she’s calling 911.” Ninety seconds later the front doors slid open and three people in tailored black suits walked in, followed by a tall silver-haired man in a charcoal overcoat. Vivienne’s smile flickered. She recognized him instantly, because his face was on the framed portrait behind her register: Laurent Aurelle, founder and majority owner of the entire Maison Aurelle house. He walked straight past the frozen customers, past the security guard who had gone pale, and stopped in front of me. He didn’t look at Vivienne. He took my hand gently, the same hand she had just slapped the bag out of. “Chérie, I am so sorry. I told them you were coming today.” Vivienne’s phone slipped and clattered on the marble. Laurent finally turned to her, calm as glass. “Vivienne, this is the woman who signed the paperwork last Friday. As of 9 a.m. Monday she owns forty-one percent of this company, including the lease on the building you are standing in. She is also, as of this quarter, your regional director.” Vivienne tried to speak. Nothing came out but a small wet sound. I picked up the caramel Birkin she had ripped away from me, set it back on its velvet pedestal, and turned to her with the softest smile I could manage. “Sweetheart, go clear out your locker. And on your way out, try the outlet mall. I hear they’re hiring seasonal.” The two customers who had giggled were already backing toward the door. The security guard was holding it open for them. Vivienne just stood there in her six-inch heels, mascara starting to run, as Laurent’s assistant quietly asked for her employee badge. I hadn’t raised my voice once.