The Maison Valentine flagship store rose from Fifth Avenue like a monument to everything I couldn't afford.
Three stories of glass and white marble. Crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. A doorman in a tailored coat that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The Valentine logo, that elegant V wrapped around a heart, gleamed in gold above the entrance.
I found parking in a garage that charged forty dollars an hour.
Forty. Dollars. An hour.
The credit card in my pocket suddenly felt very important.
Vivienne stepped out of the Lexus before I could reach her door. She smoothed her blazer. Checked her reflection in the tinted window. Whatever exhaustion I'd glimpsed earlier had vanished completely. In its place stood something else entirely.
A general preparing for inspection.
