The sales associate's face went white as she clutched the hundred-dollar bill from Tiffany.
"Yes... yes, of course, Mrs...?" the manager stammered.
"Sanders," Colette said.
The name hit the group like a physical blow.
Meredith grabbed the counter for support. "Sanders? You... you really married him?"
The manager ignored Tiffany completely. "Mrs. Sanders, my deepest apologies for my staff's... oversight. The salon is yours. We can close it to the public immediately."
Tiffany's face turned a blotchy red. "That card is stolen! She's broke! Her dad is dying!"
She lunged for the card.
A security guard stepped in, blocking Tiffany with a massive arm.
"Miss," the manager said, his voice like ice. "Do not harass our VIP client."
"It's fake!" Tiffany screamed.
"It is very real," the manager said. "Now, please leave. You are disturbing Mrs. Sanders."
"You're kicking us out?" Meredith shrieked.
"Immediately."
Security ushered them toward the exit. Chad looked back at Colette, his eyes full of regret. Colette didn't even blink.
When they were gone, Colette let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for days.
"Holy shit," Zoe whispered. "You just... put a hold on everything."
Colette looked at the rows of shoes now inaccessible to anyone else. "I did."
She felt a rush of victory. But as the adrenaline faded, a hollow, cold feeling settled in her stomach. The power wasn't hers. It was his. She had just used his shield to fight her battle, becoming the very kind of person she despised-someone who wielded money like a weapon.
"Let's go," Colette said abruptly, turning away from the spoils. "I need... air."
Back at the penthouse, the silence was waiting. August wasn't home yet. The shopping bags from the store-the few things she'd actually purchased for Zoe and herself-felt like accusations sitting in the foyer. She stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, seeing the ghost of the woman in the silver dress from the night before. Who was she becoming?
Colette went to the kitchen. It was pristine, unused. She needed to do something real, something with her own hands. Something that was hers. She found pasta, tomatoes, garlic. She started chopping. The rhythm of the knife against the board calmed her, a familiar meditation that smelled of home and her mother.
The front door opened. August walked in, loosening his tie. He looked exhausted.
He stopped when he saw the shopping bags piled in the foyer. He raised an eyebrow.
Then he smelled it. Garlic. Basil.
He walked into the dining room. Colette was there, wearing an apron over her jeans, placing a steaming bowl of pasta on the table.
"You're home," she said. "I... made dinner. It helps me think."
August stared at the pasta. No one had cooked for him in this apartment. Ever. His meals came in boxes or were served by staff.
"You cook?" he asked.
"I'm Italian on my mother's side," she said. "Sit. It's better when it's hot."
August sat. He took a bite. It was simple. It was perfect.
He looked at her. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. She looked... like a home.
The ice around his chest, the ice that had been there for years, cracked a little more.
Bzzt.
His phone vibrated on the table.
August looked at the screen. His expression hardened instantly. The warmth vanished.
Caller: Grandfather.
He picked up the phone. "Yes, sir."
He listened for a moment, his eyes locking onto Colette's.
"Yes," August said. "She spent a lot today. Yes, she has spirit."
He paused.
"Sunday dinner? We'll be there."
He hung up. The silence in the room was heavy now.
"What is it?" Colette asked.
"The Lion wants to meet the lamb," August said grimly. "My grandfather knows about the shopping spree. He wants to meet you on Sunday."
Colette felt a chill. "Is that bad?"
"My grandfather eats people for sport, Colette," August said, standing up. "Get ready." The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Colette felt a knot of dread tighten in her stomach. She looked at August, searching his face for reassurance, but his expression was unreadable. He looked like a man preparing for battle, not a family dinner.
"What do I wear?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
August sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Something armored. He'll pick you apart if you show any weakness."
The days leading up to Sunday were a silent, cold war. August was a ghost in the penthouse, disappearing into his study before dawn and returning long after Colette had gone to bed, his focus absolute. He left her alone, an isolation that was more unnerving than any argument.
On Saturday evening, a garment bag appeared on her bed. Inside was a midnight blue velvet gown. There was no note. There didn't need to be.
Now, standing by the elevator, Colette felt the weight of the fabric on her shoulders. August was waiting, impeccably dressed, his face a mask of cold composure. He held out his arm.
"It's not a dress, Colette," he said, his voice low as she took his arm, his grip firm. "It's a uniform. Remember your role."
The Maybach glided through the city, the tension inside radiating from him like a physical force. He hadn't spoken since, and now, as they turned off the main road, Colette felt her pulse hammering against her throat.
The driveway was a winding ribbon of crushed white stone, lined with ancient oaks that loomed like sentinels.
