Nineteen – Eliza
NINETEEN
ELIZA
I n the morning, Harrison is pacing the balcony, a warm coffee in hand.
“You can’t have me break up with someone and then six months later ask me to help you get her back,” he says. “That’s not how this works.”
I plop down at the breakfast bar and stuff a strawberry into my lips.
“I swear to God, if you show up to her place and beg for forgiveness, I will disown you on behalf of all mankind…” He slams down his coffee and rushes inside.
“Change of plans for today.” He pulls out his wallet and takes out a sleek black credit card. “Tell Harold to drop you off on Billionaire’s Row for shopping and come back with ten new suits and twenty new dresses so we can start planning out your wardrobe for the conference.”
“Is there a price range you want me to stay in per outfit?”
“No.” He looks amused as he pulls on his blazer. “But I’ll get an alert if you get close to three million.”
“I have to go handle a stupid client.” He rushes past me, but then he looks over his shoulder. “Wear whatever you want, but make sure you have on heels.”
I linger on the corner far longer than I should. Still feeling a slight sting from the brunch, I’m not ready to dive into this elite cesspool again, but if Harrison didn’t flinch in the slightest about me heading out alone, maybe I shouldn’t either.
Taking a deep breath, I scan the storefronts across the street.
Balmain. Hermès. Tom Ford. Marc Jacobs.
I have no idea how to properly pronounce the first two, so I take my chances with the third.
Just be confident, just be confident…
I mutter the words under my breath as I walk through the doors.
“Well, hello there, Miss!” A suited man greets me from the counter. “Are you searching for anything in particular today?”
“No, I’m just looking around.” I pause. “Actually, yes. I’m attending a very important event in a few weeks, and I need dress and suit options.”
“Well, I can help you with the suits, but only if you don’t mind coming back via appointment so I can get you properly sized.”
“I can do that.”
“Perfect!” He pulls a business card from his pocket and scribbles on the back. “I’m James, and you are?”
“Eliza Hart.”
“And what is it that you do for a living, Eliza?”
I rattle off the lines I’ve rehearsed with Harrison, and James looks impressed as he hands me the card.
“Email me tonight with the days you want to come in. I’ll respond with times.” He taps his chin. “If you’re looking for dresses, check out The Laccare.”
“Thank you.”
Feeling slightly steadier, I take his advice and walk into the next store.
Rows of bright dresses sparkle from mannequins. I flick the tag on a silver one, and my eyes bulge.
$14,000?
I move toward the purses and pick up a golden clutch bag. The eight-thousand-dollar price tag makes me quietly set it back down.
“Can I help you?” a voice cuts in behind me.
I turn to see a svelte brunette in a sharply tailored black suit. Her smile is all bone and no warmth. She glances down at my shoes before meeting my eyes.
“I’m attending a very important flurry of parties,” I say, clearing my throat, “and I need dress and suit options.”
She doesn’t respond right away—just looks me over like I’ve tracked mud onto the carpet.
“Well,” she says eventually. “Did you mean to come into this store?”
I blink. “I was told you had good options.”
“For… parties?” Her tone is flat, condescending.
“Yes. In pink, preferably.”
She doesn’t move. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I didn’t know I needed one.”
“We cater to regular clientele,” she replies coolly. “You might have better luck at TJ Maxx. Or Marshall’s.”
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t the kind of store where people browse.”
“I’m not just browsing. If I see something I like, I’ll buy it.”
Her smile sharpens. “With what?”
“I have a black card. Want to see the limit?”
She pauses, but only to lean closer. “You can barely walk in your heels. Which means they’re either knockoffs, or the nicest thing you own to fool people who don’t know better.”
She doesn’t stop there.
“Your hair—the parts that aren’t split ends—looks like it hasn’t seen a flatiron in years. And your shirt? Jordache, right? That’s old-school Walmart. Maybe even Goodwill. Three holes in it… so vintage.”
I stare at her, stunned.
“But hey.” She tilts her head. “It’s not that I think you can’t afford what’s in here,” she says. “I know .”
She steps aside, and her associate is already holding the door open.
Around us, the boutique is silent. The other customers are still watching. One of them raises a phone like she’s catching the end of a scene.
I swallow hard, eyes stinging. My hands tremble as I back away—past the mannequins, past the racks, past the golden clutch I’ll never touch again.
Outside, the city air hits me like a slap. I cross the street and stop in front of the Michael Kors store, hand on the door.
I hesitate, then let it fall back to my side.
It’s not worth it…