By the time our hair was rinsed and wrapped into fluffy white towels, both of us were flushed from champagne and wicked laughter. We strutted out of the salon together, sunglasses on, towel turbans perched like crowns. We looked like absolute menaces—and it felt glorious.
"Right," Aria announced, sliding back into the passenger seat of the convertible as Thomas held the door. "Phase one complete. Now, to battle."
"Battle?" I asked, settling into the creamy leather.
"Couture, darling. We wage war on the racks."
The drive to the city's most exclusive shopping district was exactly as Aria had predicted: a spectacle. Heads turned as the vintage beauty purred down the street, two women with towel turbans and oversized sunglasses laughing inside. It was ridiculous, ostentatious, and utterly exhilarating. Behind us, like a loyal, heavily-armored guard dog, the matte black G-Wagon kept a discreet but unmissable distance.
