Chapter 30
CLEO
Iwas alone in Rome and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I was used to doing stuff on my own, but over the last couple of days, Cash had spoiled me. He’d been my travel companion, pseudo-boyfriend, and buddy.
Technically, he was still spoiling me. I did have his credit card with total access. But still. I missed Lurch.
Cash had left for his meeting with Rossi an hour ago, all pressed suit and tight jaw.
He’d been in CEO mode. All business. No smiles.
No jokes. Nothing. It felt like he was a thousand miles away even when he was standing right in front of me.
He’d told me to enjoy my shopping trip. Had handed me a black card without ceremony. And that was that.
No kiss goodbye. No lingering look. Nothing.
It was exactly what I’d asked for yesterday.
But it still sucked. I knew why. Obviously.
People back home thought we were engaged.
When we were in Rome roleplaying, it wasn’t a big deal.
No one was going to know or say anything.
Back home it was a different story. People in his circle were going to look at me and laugh.
Not laugh, like haha and point fingers, but laugh at him for choosing someone like me. I didn’t fit the mold.
I wasn’t going to feel bad about it. Their opinions didn’t matter. But it was just a little intense to think I would be linked with him. I pushed that thought back down. I wasn’t going to get worked up about what might happen. What people might say or think.
I was in Rome with a black card and I was going to use it.
I wasn’t going to feel even a little guilty about spending his money.
It was part of our arrangement. And now that I knew people were going to be paying attention, I wanted to look the part of a Bancroft fiancée.
Maybe not the exact type, but something close.
And that meant I needed clothes.
I walked down Via del Corso trying to shake off the weird hollow feeling in my chest. The morning had been so strange.
Cash had been different. Not the man who’d danced with me in the courtyard, not the one who’d laughed until his sides hurt over my hamster story.
He’d been the Cash from the Hamptons. Rigid. Controlled. Untouchable.
I didn’t like it. But I also didn’t get to have an opinion about it, did I? I’d drawn the line. He was respecting it. This was what I wanted.
Right?
I stopped in front of a boutique with the most gorgeous window display I’d seen all day.
The mannequins wore flowing dresses in jewel tones.
Emerald, sapphire, amethyst. Real silk, from the look of it.
The kind of clothes that cost more than my rent.
But they spoke to me. They were begging me to buy them.
And I could absolutely afford them right now, courtesy of Cash’s credit card.
I smiled despite myself and pushed open the door.
The boutique was stunning. High ceilings, marble floors, racks of clothes organized by color like some kind of fashionista’s fever dream.
I ran my hand along a rack of dresses and felt the quality in my fingertips—real craftsmanship, the kind that made my heart skip.
I pulled out a burnt orange dress with dramatic sleeves. Then an emerald green one with a plunging neckline. Then a purple number that made me think of Cleopatra. I absolutely had to have the purple one. It made me think of Cash and something told me he would love it.
I looked around for someone to help me find a dressing room.
The boutique was quiet. Three women stood behind a sleek counter at the back, talking amongst themselves. They were all impossibly thin, impossibly chic, wearing black in that effortless European way that made American attempts at sophistication fall just a little flat.
I walked up to them, dresses draped over my arm.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I get a dressing room?”
The women looked at me. All three of them, in perfect synchronization, their eyes moving from my face down my body and back up again. Not even trying to hide it.
The tallest one—blonde, severe cheekbones, filled lips painted red—almost sneered. “I’m sorry, we don’t carry your size.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Your size.” She said it slowly, like I might not understand. “We don’t carry it.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I haven’t even told you my size.”
“We can see.” The second woman—brunette, equally thin, equally dismissive—gestured vaguely at my body. “This boutique caters to a very specific clientele.”
“A specific clientele,” I repeated.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable shopping elsewhere.” The third woman didn’t even look at me. She was already turning back to her colleagues, conversation over.
I stood there with my arms full of dresses, my face burning, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
I’d dealt with this before. Of course I had. I was a plus-size woman who loved fashion. I’d been turned away from stores, ignored by salespeople, made to feel like my body was an inconvenience to the industry I loved. I’d developed thick skin. I’d learned to advocate for myself.
But something about this moment shattered something. They found my soft underbelly. Their arrows landed. It hurt. I felt less than. I put the dresses back on the rack with shaking hands and walked out.
I wasn’t going to cry. I fumbled for my phone. My hands were trembling so badly I almost dropped it. I found Melody’s contact and hit call before I could talk myself out of it.
She answered on the second ring. “Hey! How’s the shopping? Find anything good?”
“Mel.” My voice cracked.
“What’s wrong?”
I told her. The words came out in a rush. The boutique, the women, the way they’d looked at me like I didn’t deserve to even touch their clothes. By the time I finished I was crying, standing on a street corner in Rome like a tourist who’d gotten pickpocketed, completely falling apart.
Melody listened. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t try to fix it.
When I finished, she said, “Fuck them.”
I laughed wetly. “Mel—”
“No, I mean it. Fuck them. You know what those women are?”
“What?”
“Miserable. They’re miserable people who make themselves feel better by making other people feel small.
They haven’t eaten a decent meal in years.
That’s what miserable, no-carbs, no-sugar diets do to you.
We were not meant to survive on lettuce and bone broth.
It short-circuits the brain and turns you into a mean girl.
” Her voice was fierce. “You know who you are, Cleo. You’re a badass.
You’re brilliant and talented and you have more style in your pinky finger than those women have in their entire overpriced boutique. ”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. They should be embarrassed. They should be ashamed. Not you.” She paused. “Where are you right now?”
“Outside the store.”
“Good. Go back in there.”
“What?”
“Go back in there and tell them exactly what you think of them. Then take a picture of that store name and warn every woman you know never to give them a single euro.”
My heart was still racing, but something else was building underneath the shame. Something that felt like anger. Like power. She was tapping into that adrenaline I had let those bitches steal. No one stole from me. No one took away my power.
“You’re right,” I said quietly.
“I know I’m right. You’re Cleo fucking Quinn. Nobody gets to make you feel small.”
I wiped my eyes. Lifted my chin. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Now go be the badass I know you are.”
I hung up, turned around, and walked back into that boutique with my head high and my shoulders back. The three women looked up in surprise.
“I have something to say,” I announced.
The blonde one sighed. “Signorina, we already told you. There’s a boutique down the street. They might have something more suitable.”
“You don’t carry my size. I heard you.” I walked up to the counter. “What you don’t seem to understand is that this isn’t about what you carry. It’s about how you treat people. It’s about basic human decency, which apparently wasn’t included in your employee training.”
The brunette’s eyes narrowed. “I think you should leave.”
“I’m leaving. But first I’m going to make sure every woman I know, every follower I have and every person in my network understands exactly what kind of establishment this is.
You don’t know me, but people listen to me.
People care what I have to say, especially about fashion.
Your basic bitch black went out in the nineties.
Boring. Zero personality. But I suppose that suits the three of you and your hive mind. ”
The blonde’s red lips stretched into a flat line.
“See, unlike you, I actually believe women of all sizes deserve to feel beautiful. And I have a platform to share that message. So thank you. Thank you for reminding me why the work I do matters.” I turned and walked out before they could respond.
My hands were still shaking, but this time it was adrenaline. Righteous fury. The good kind of rage that made you want to burn things down and build something better in their place. I snapped a picture of the storefront and the beautiful window display.
I pulled up Instagram and started typing a caption. All the vitriol I felt, all the hurt transmuted into words designed to expose exactly what had just happened. I included the photo of the boutique name. My finger hovered over the post button.
Then I stopped. Did I really want to do this? Lead with anger? With shame? Was that the message I wanted to send?
I was still deciding when I walked straight into someone.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I looked up.
Angelica Rossi stood in front of me, designer sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a dress that probably came from the very store I was about to blast. She looked me up and down with that same appraising expression I’d just gotten from the boutique women, and something in my chest went cold.
“Oh, love,” she said, her accent thick and condescending. “They don’t make clothes for you here.”
I stared at her.
She smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “Would you like me to point you toward stores that do? Somewhere more suitable?”
For a second I felt that shame try to crawl back up my throat. Then I laughed.
It surprised her. I could see it in the way her smile faltered, in the slight widening of her eyes. She took a step back like she was afraid. Like she wondered if I was unhinged and about to go off the rails.
As if I’d give the bitch the pleasure.
“For such a beautiful woman you truly are vile. Hideous. You should go in. The Ladies in Black need all the customers they can get because when I’m done with them, they’ll be lucky to get a job at Walmart.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Her perfect mask slipped just enough that I could see the person underneath—petty, unhappy, desperate to make someone else feel as small as she felt.
I didn’t wait for her response. I walked past her, head high, and I kept walking until I was three blocks away and my heart had stopped hammering quite so hard. Then I stopped. Leaned against a building. Took a breath.
People only had power over me if I let them. I’d fought too hard to get where I was. I had built myself back up too many times from moments just like this to let anyone tear me down now. Not boutique saleswomen. Not bitter socialites. Not even my own insecurities.
I was capable. Strong. Resilient.
I got shit done.
I got what I wanted.
And there was one last thing I wanted to get before I left Rome.