Chapter 5 Little VIP

Isabella’s POV

The boutique's air conditioning raised goosebumps on my arms as I clutched the velvet box tighter. Inside, the Patek Philippe glinted under the spotlights—the same way it had when I'd handed over my maxed-out credit card, imagining Damon's face when he opened it. For our anniversary. For our future.

"For the discerning gentleman," the salesman had crooned, wrapping it in silver paper.

Now that same man eyed me with thinly veiled contempt. "Madam, our return policy explicitly—"

"Seven days." I slammed the receipt onto the glass counter, the tremor in my fingers betraying me. "It's been six."

His smile turned saccharine. "Exchanges only. With the original purchaser present."

A laugh like shattering stemware sliced through the boutique's hush.

"Well, well. If it isn't my brother's charity case."

My spine locked. Daniella Sanchez lounged in the doorway, her crocodile Birkin dangling like a noose. Her gaze—cold as the diamonds at her throat—raked over my scuffed pumps before settling on the watch box.

A perfectly sculpted brow arched. "Aw. Did someone's sugar daddy allowance get cut off?"

Heat scorched my cheeks as patrons pretended not to eavesdrop. The salesman's lips twitched.

"This doesn't concern you," I ground out.

"Everything about you concerns us." Her whisper carried the weight of a guillotine. "Did you truly believe a gutter rat could keep a Sanchez?"

The words hit like a physical blow. My throat burned, but I forced my chin up. "I just want my money back."

Daniella's laughter crystallized the air between us. "Nothing was ever yours, darling. Not Damon. And certainly not—" She snapped the watch box shut with a decisive click. "—this pathetic trinket."

The world tilted. Twenty thousand dollars—gone. Another week, Alan would have to wait for treatment. The metallic tang of desperation flooded my mouth—

"If she uses my VIP account, will you process the return?"

That voice—too young, too confident—cut through the boutique's tension. I turned to find a boy who couldn't have been more than seven standing there, his tiny hands tucked into miniature suit pockets. Every inch of him screamed old money, from his gelled hair to his polished Oxfords.

The manager's lip curled. "And who might you be, little man?"

"A platinum client," he announced, puffing out his chest. "And you're harassing my girlfriend."

A startled laugh bubbled up in my throat despite everything. The child—this absurd, wonderful child—threw me a conspiratorial wink before turning his stern gaze on the manager. "Your policy clearly states seven-day returns. Has it been seven days, miss?"

He didn't look back, but his small shoulders squared in determination. Just like Alan used to do when defending me at those awful charity galas.

"Six," I answered, my lips curving despite myself.

"Then honor your contract." Though he barely reached the counter, his presence commanded the room. The manager's forehead glistened as he mopped at it with a silk handkerchief.

Daniella's manicured finger tapped the glass. "Prove your status, little lord. Or are we taking orders from any street urchin now?"

For the first time, the boy faltered. His hands patted his blazer pockets frantically before his face fell. "I... I think it's in my schoolbag..."

Daniella's triumphant cackle shattered the momentary hope. "How perfectly predictable."

She turned to the manager, who had materialized behind the counter. "I believe store policy prohibits entertaining frauds and their..." Her gaze swept over me with deliberate cruelty. "Associates."

The manager started laughing sarcastically. “You almost got me, boy. Security! Get these people out of here!”

The boy—my tiny champion—deflated before my eyes. His proud shoulders curled inward as security herded us toward the exit, his teeth worrying his lower lip raw. The afternoon sunlight felt like an accusation as we spilled onto the sidewalk.

"Hey," I murmured, crouching until we were eye-level. He was kicking angrily at loose pavement. "That was incredibly brave, what you did in there."

He blinked up at me with those ocean-blue eyes, unshed tears making them glitter. "Brave doesn't matter when you lose."

The ache in his voice was too familiar—that hollow feeling when hope curdles into helplessness. My own failures pressed against my ribs.

Then his stomach growled with cartoonish volume, shattering the tension. I burst out laughing. "Sounds like someone's earned a hero's reward."

His gasp when I pointed to the hot dog cart was downright reverent. "For real? Dad says street meat'll give me parasites!"

Ketchup became a beard as he inhaled the hot dog, his earlier sophistication vanishing between messy bites. In this moment, he wasn't a miniature tycoon—just a hungry kid.

"I'm Bella," I said, wiping a blob of tomato jam from his chin with my thumb. "What's your—"

"Hi, Bella. I'm Noah," he mumbled through a mouthful of hot dog, then stiffened as two shadows fell across us. The bodyguards loomed like twin monoliths in their tailored black suits.

"Young master." The larger one spoke through clenched jaws. "Your father has requested your immediate return."

Noah's eye roll was so perfected it could only come from years of similar retrievals. But as the guards reached for him, he surprised us all—launching himself at me with sticky hands and the unmistakable scent of street vendor onions and ketchup. His small arms squeezed with unexpected strength.

"We'll meet again, Miss Bella," he whispered against my shoulder, his breath warm and sweet with soda pop. Then he pulled back just enough to deliver a wink so deliberately theatrical it made me laugh. "I promise."

The town car's tinted windows swallowed him whole, leaving me standing on the curb with my useless watch and a peculiar ache in my chest.

As if fate had led us to meet.