Clarine pulled a battered, scuffed suitcase from the back of the walk-in closet. It was the same one she had brought with her three years ago.
She ignored the racks of Chanel, Dior, and Prada. She reached for the back corner, pulling out her old, plain cotton t-shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and a thick leather-bound sketchbook.
The sharp click-clack of high heels announced Cherie's arrival.
Cherie leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. A nasty smirk played on her lips. "Look at you. Packing up your trash like a homeless beggar."
Clarine didn't look up. She folded a shirt and placed it in the suitcase.
Cherie hated being ignored. She walked over to the vanity and picked up a crystal bottle of perfume. "Cora's favorite," Cherie taunted. "This room is finally getting a real woman back in it."
Clarine remained silent.
Furious, Cherie marched over and kicked the stack of folded clothes. The shirts scattered across the floor.
"Listen to me, you nobody," Cherie hissed. "Without the Lynch name, you won't even get a job washing dishes in this city."
Clarine slowly stood up. She dusted off her hands. She turned and locked eyes with Cherie. Her gaze was so intensely cold that Cherie involuntarily took a half-step back.
Clarine's eyes slowly dragged up and down Cherie's body, analyzing the dress she wore.
"That dress," Clarine said, her voice low and dripping with professional disdain. "It's supposed to be from the spring couture line, isn't it?"
Cherie lifted her chin proudly. "Custom made."
"It's a fake," Clarine stated flatly. "Or at best, a butchered out-of-season cast-off. The waistline darting is asymmetrical by a quarter of an inch, and the silk organza is stiff. The real designer uses a bias cut to allow the fabric to drape. You look like a stuffed sausage."
Cherie's face drained of blood, then flushed a violent, mottled red. She had rented the altered dress from a shady boutique to impress Evert.
"You wear fake clothes, and you pick up the trash men I throw away," Clarine sneered. "You are pathetic."
"Shut up!" Cherie shrieked. She raised her hand and swung it hard toward Clarine's face.
Clarine's hand shot out like lightning. She caught Cherie's wrist mid-air, her fingers clamping down hard on the bone.
Cherie let out a sharp cry of pain.
"Try that again," Clarine whispered, twisting the wrist slightly, "and I will make sure every socialite in New York knows exactly where you rent your cheap knock-offs."
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Evert's voice called out, "Clarine?"
Cherie's eyes widened. She instantly went limp. She threw herself backward, crashing onto the carpet with a loud thud. Tears sprang to her eyes on command.
Evert walked into the room. He saw Cherie sobbing on the floor and Clarine standing over her.
"She pushed me!" Cherie wailed, clutching her wrist. "I was just trying to help her pack!"
Evert rushed forward and helped Cherie up. He turned a furious glare on Clarine. "Have you lost your mind? You cheat on me, and now you assault an innocent woman?"
Clarine let out a short, breathy laugh. She looked at Evert as if he were the dumbest creature on earth.
She zipped up her cheap suitcase, grabbed the handle, and walked right past them.
As she brushed past Evert's shoulder, she paused. She leaned in close to his ear.
"A bitch and a dog," Clarine whispered. "A match made in heaven."
Evert's face turned purple. He reached out to grab her arm, but his fingers slipped off her jacket.
Clarine walked out the door, the wheels of her suitcase clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor.
Evert's heart seized. The panic returned, sharper this time. He watched her walk away, and for a terrifying second, he felt like he was losing the only real thing in his life.
Cherie kept crying against his chest. Evert shoved her away, his breathing heavy and erratic.
