“Crawl after it, old man. That’s what your kind is good at.” Vivienne’s heel clicked as she circled me, filming on her phone for her followers. “Say cheese for the internet, janitor.” I stayed on the floor, blinking through the burn, and quietly pressed a single button on the watch under my sleeve. Then I stood up, walked to the emerald gown, and lifted it off the mannequin. Vivienne shrieked. “Put that down before I call security!” “Call them,” I said. “Call whoever you want.” The front doors hissed open. Six people in tailored charcoal suits walked in without a word, followed by a silver-haired woman with a tablet — Margaret Vale, the founder herself. Vivienne’s phone slipped from her hand and cracked on the marble. Margaret didn’t even look at her. She walked straight to me, took the gown from my arms, and folded it over her wrist. “Mr. Calloway. I am so sorry we kept you waiting. The private fitting room is ready, and your daughter’s stylist arrived ten minutes ago.” Vivienne’s face went the color of chalk. “Mr… Calloway?” Margaret finally turned to her, voice like cold glass. “Vivienne. Meet the man who bought seventy-two percent of this company last Tuesday. The gentleman you just assaulted on camera owns the building you’re standing in, the payroll that feeds you, and the lease on the apartment you live in upstairs.” Vivienne opened her mouth. Nothing came out. I picked up my duffel bag, dusted it off, and smiled at her for the first time. “Wipe that dust off your feet, Vivienne. Before you touch anything.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee, slow and deliberate, while Brielle’s friends filmed. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, ‘before you redecorate, you should meet someone.’ The […]
I picked up the napkin. I read it. Three sentences in Camille’s loopy handwriting, transferring full ownership of Wren Street Bakery to her upon Mom’s […]
