A car honked. The gateman stood up, went to the gate, and dragged it open, letting the huge Benz glide in. It was parked carefully under the parking shed. The door opened, and a high-level boot stepped onto the asphalt, followed by another leg, revealing a pair of black, shimmering boots adorned with chains that made them glow beautifully.
Once again, it was another brand on display, written boldly on the side: Chanel.
The owner fully alighted from the car, swinging his hair—let down in waves that fell in a messy tangle, giving him a deliberately wild look. He didn't mind; that was what he wanted. To be undiscovered as he searched for Michael, wherever he'd disappeared to. Holding onto his bag—another product of Chanel—draped around his arm, he strutted out, swaying his waist like the gorgeous model he knew he was.
