She finally released my hand so we could exit the vehicle, and the absence of her touch felt strangely wrong. Like I'd gotten used to it in the span of forty minutes and my stupid brain had already adjusted.
Troublesome.
The dry cleaners proved to be exactly the kind of place Vivienne would choose. Pristine. Expensive. With a woman behind the counter who looked at customers like they were personally responsible for every wrinkle in existence.
"Valentine pickup," I said.
Her expression shifted immediately to something resembling fear mixed with reverence.
"Ah, yes. One moment please."
She disappeared into the back while Harlow wandered around the small waiting area, examining the pressed shirts displayed like art installations.
"Do you think Vivi ever just wears, like, sweatpants?" she asked idly.
"I think Vivienne considers sweatpants a war crime."
