67

THEA

Louis Vuitton smells like money and intention.

The kind of place where they greet you by name if you even glance like you belong. And I do. Today, I do.

A sales associate rushes to the door before I even push it open. “Good afternoon ma'am,” he says, all polished charm and just enough awe to feed the monster living in my chest. 

I smile, not too wide. Just enough to let him know this is routine or think so.

Afterall, I'm still Ezra Harrington’s partner to the press.

He bows his head slightly, gestures grandly toward the showroom. “Right this way.”

There’s a woman trying on a bag in the corner. She looks up at me, eyes flicking to the black card I pull from my purse like a weapon. I don’t mean to show it, but maybe I do. Maybe I want her to see it. Maybe I want me to see it.

Maybe I want to believe that I’m still that girl who dreamed of this place and not the woman who can afford it but doesn’t remember why she wanted it in the first place.

“Let’s start with the Capucines,” I say.

He brings them all. Every color. Every size. My hands glide over them, the smooth grain of leather a soft distraction from the louder things in my head.

The pink one? Too childish.

The black one? Too safe.

The blood red? That’s the one.

I nod and say, “Add it to the pile.”

He blinks. “Pile?”

“You’ll see.”

I try on boots that I’ll probably never wear—five inches high, all attitude and ankle pain. I buy them anyway. I pick up a trench coat that hugs my waist like it was stitched from my own breath. A scarf that costs more than Finn’s term fees.

A limited-edition trunk catches my eye.

“Do people actually use this?” I ask.

The associate laughs. “Very rarely. Mostly decorative. Some collectors—”

“I’ll take it.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Uncertainty. Maybe concern. Maybe commission. I don’t care.

I buy wallets I don’t need. For me and for Ezra. Perfume I won’t wear. A travel set for trips I haven’t planned. I even buy two birkin bags for Lyra because why not? If I’m going to spiral, I might as well take my best friend with me.

I swipe the card again.

And again.

Still doesn’t decline.

The associate brings out more champagne.

I stop pretending to sip.

Hours pass.

My smile fades just a little around the edges, but I keep going. Like there’s something at the bottom of this—some ache I can bury beneath designer monograms and gold clasps.

At one point, I sit. Right in the middle of the showroom. Surrounded by bags and boxes and people too polite to ask if I’m okay.

I open my phone.

No missed call.

Then, 

I think about all the little girls who won't have to lose themselves to become someone useful.

G****e: Orphanages near me.

A few clicks later, I wire five million to one with the highest debt. I don’t tell anyone. Don’t ask from Ezra. Just… do it.

The card doesn’t decline.

My fingers tremble.

It’s not the spending that gets me. It’s the realization that I could spend a hundred million more, and it wouldn’t fill the hollow parts inside me.

There’s no item in this store that can return the girl I was before life made me this version of efficient, tired womanhood.

Still, I press on.

By the time I’m done, I'm tired. Several attendees floodntowards my car, holding bags of items I'd bought.

That's when I finally decided to stop this spiral and just have a look around.

People brush past me. Some stare. Some whisper. One asks where I got my heels. I nod politely, but I’m not really here. My mind is spiraling elsewhere as I walk around.

I’m trying to remember the last time I bought something because I simply loved it.

 

I don't remember.

And that thought steals my breath in a way no price tag ever could.

Funny how I've actually drove here while in a good mood but end up with a shitty one. 

Then, suddenly—

Thud.

Someone collides with me.

Not a light bump either—full-bodied, off-balance, and sharp enough to jar me back to earth. My heel skids slightly. I catch myself with a quick step back, fingers instinctively curling around my purse.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.

“Shit, I’m so sor—”

Her voice slices through the air like a wire pulled too tight.

I freeze.

She freezes.

We both stare.

Tall. Blonde. Glossed lips. A trench that screams old money and old grudges. Knee length boots.

Isla.

Ezra’s ex-wife.

Of course the universe sends me her when I’m emotionally drained, carting luxury shopping bags like a walking identity crisis.

She recognizes me too. I see it in the twitch of her jaw, the shift of her weight, the faint lift of her brows like she’s not sure if she should smile or hiss.

“Thea Carlisle right?” she says slowly, like she’s tasting something bitter. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”