"Sir, what are we doing here?" Amara asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as if the silence of the street was sacred.
She thought they went to have some lunch but they wound their way into a neighborhood so quiet and posh it felt like the air itself had been filtered through a thousand-dollar silk screen
He pulled the car to a smooth stop in front of a minimalist building that looked more like an art gallery than a boutique. "Shopping," he said, killing the engine. "And lunch is being delivered to the fitting room."
Oh, right. Maybe for Wang Enterprises anniversary party this week.
Inside, the boutique smelled of expensive lilies and something vaguely metallic. It was all white marble and brushed brass. Amara took three steps in, spun around, and frowned. She saw mannequins, yes. But they were all wearing delicate slips, structured bodices, and gowns that looked like they were spun from starlight and secrets.
