DIANA
I don’t bother with a second glance.
The necklace is off in one tug — the clasp snapping, the sound of metal hitting marble. I drop it onto the hotel floor. “I don’t wear counterfeits.”
Amanda, ever the picture of discretion, nods once. “It was just a sample, ma’am. Sent over by Vanderbilt Jewellery for your approval. The creative director is suggesting we go with a—” she checks the notes in her hand— “simpler design for the campaign.”
I take the proposal she offers me and skim exactly two lines before tossing it after the necklace.
“So by ‘simpler’ he means cheaper,” I say flatly. “Remind him this is Vanderbilt Holdings, not some Etsy startup run by trust fund burnouts. Cancel the meeting. Scrap the concept. Either he comes back with diamonds or he doesn’t come back at all.”
“Yes, Ms. Vanderbilt.”
Amanda crouches to retrieve the necklace and papers, but I flick a hand. “Leave it. That’s what the cleaning staff are paid for.”
By the time we exit my hotel, my patience is already
