Chapter 9: The Standard of Elegance

Skylar Vance—clothed in her grubby gray coat, frayed cotton trousers, and a cascade of unkempt hair—was a walking anomaly in the city's premier commercial high-rise. Her appearance commanded one hundred percent of the public’s attention, though none of it was complimentary.

Even if she was entirely indifferent to the stares, there were always those who saw an easy target, a ‘soft persimmon’ ripe for crushing. The moment she stepped into a high-end women’s clothing boutique, a high-pitched sneer cut through the ambient music.

“Excuse me, I need to know, when did the service standard here drop so low?” A preppy young girl with a bright ponytail and fashionable flared jeans, clearly from a comfortable, middle-class family, stood nearby. “Are you letting every beggar off the street wander in? Don’t let her dirty the clothes.”

The shop assistant at the entrance, already frowning at Skylar’s arrival, immediately took the cue. The store owner was absent, giving her free rein to enforce her own snobbish rules. She marched forward, placing herself squarely in front of Skylar, forcing a brittle, condescending smile. “I apologize, madam. We cannot accommodate you at this time. Please find another shop that suits your needs.”

“Oh? You open your doors for business, yet you turn away customers? That is certainly a novel approach,” Skylar replied, her voice flat, lacking any trace of heat or indignation. She simply moved around the obstructive woman, walking deeper into the store. Her gaze swept over the racks of clothes with the detached, surgical precision of a buyer on a tight timeline. Her fingers flickered over the hangers, and in less than sixty seconds, she had pulled out three distinct, high-quality outfits.

She dropped the bundle directly onto the counter in front of a startled, younger assistant. “Check out.”

What?

Not only was the sales assistant frozen, but the preppy girl who had just insulted her stood wide-eyed, utterly convinced the ragamuffin couldn't possibly afford the merchandise. This boutique was the most exclusive and expensive in the entire building; even a single outfit cost hundreds of USD. The preppy girl herself was typically limited to the discounted sections.

The sharp, sudden reversal was a humiliation. Her face felt blistered by the sound of the metaphorical slap. The preppy girl found herself trapped, unable to leave or advance without losing face.

“Ahem! Madam, please, come right in!” The experienced saleswoman, realizing her mistake, rushed forward, instantly dropping her haughty demeanor toward the potential buyer. She had already missed one commission; she could not afford to miss another.

The junior assistant hurried to the register with the three outfits, still slightly dazed, unable to reconcile the simple girl with the immediate, several-hundred USD transaction. The thought of her impending commission, however, quickly excited her.

As Skylar walked past the preppy girl, her voice was a feather-light brush of ice. “It seems the standard here truly is questionable.”

The preppy girl’s eyes widened further. Her face flushed crimson with rage. “You…!”

Skylar paused, her gaze utterly serene, inviting a response.

The preppy girl ground her teeth, feeling the hot, unbearable sting of being publicly shamed by someone she considered beneath contempt. Her eyes fell on the three gorgeous outfits waiting on the counter, and a sudden, desperate idea formed. “I’ll take those three outfits!” she declared loudly.

Her announcement instantly drew the attention of the surrounding shoppers. Seeing the contest—the fashionable girl versus the shabby one—everyone mentally bet on the snob. The flower will surely win out over the mudlark.

The rude saleswoman immediately leaped to the preppy girl’s defense, seizing the moment to score the sale. She snatched the clothes from the counter. “What exquisite taste, madam! These are our brand-new items, each style is unique, and they will truly enhance your figure!” Her face was a mask of calculated cheer, her mind already calculating the commission.

“But, Liu Jie, that customer selected them first…” the junior assistant whispered, attempting a timid defense of Skylar.

The older woman glared and hissed her down. “Don’t you understand the rules? Can’t you see who is actually capable of paying the bill? Go stand in the corner!” The insult was not just aimed at the junior assistant’s lack of vision; it was a savage, public declaration that Skylar was an impostor, putting on airs she couldn't afford.

The preppy girl, her confidence restored, strutted over to the register. “How much?”

“Hello, that will be $568 USD in total,” the cashier politely quoted.

“Wh-What?” The girl froze mid-reach for her purse. Her eyes locked on the three outfits. She hadn't realized the price would exceed $500 USD. This was almost her entire month’s allowance.

But with the entire shop watching, her pride forced her to act. She reluctantly counted out five $100 bills—her wallet was now virtually empty. She bit her lip, preparing to hand the money over, when a cold, familiar voice drifted from behind her.

“I’ll pay $50 USD more than her. I will take those three outfits.”

The flat, calm voice caused the girl to spin around, glaring murderously at Skylar Vance.

Skylar walked right up to her, slightly bending down to maintain level eye contact. “$618 USD. If you can match that amount in cash, the clothes are yours.”

“You…!” The girl was speechless, her face contorting with sheer frustration. She desperately rifled through her wallet, shaking out every last coin, but she couldn't come close to gathering $600 USD.

The weight of the surrounding stares crushed her. Her face was now hot enough to bleed.

Skylar withdrew her hand from her pocket. Held neatly in her palm was a stack of seven crisp $100 bills—a clean $700 USD. She extended the money to the cashier.

The sight of Skylar, the girl in the rags, holding such a large, pristine amount of cash—in contrast to the fashionable girl who couldn’t produce the required amount—was a powerful, irrefutable condemnation. The preppy girl was utterly shamed, defeated by the weapon of pure, effortless wealth.

Skylar didn't spare her another glance. Her policy was simple: Don't bother me, and I won't bother you. But if someone sought conflict, they had to be prepared to bear the full, devastating consequences. The humiliation was merely a minor price of tuition.

The entire incident was nothing more than a brief, annoying delay. Skylar changed into one of the new outfits in the dressing room—a sharp, sophisticated change that instantly elevated her aura—and carried the bag of new clothes out of the complex.

Catching sight of a barbershop across the street, she remembered the disastrous state of her hair. Without hesitation, she walked in.

The barber, a man in his twenties, raised an eyebrow. He had never seen a girl whose bangs completely obscured her face. She looked lifeless, shadowed. He began to organize his tools, his interest minimal. He assumed she was shy and would only request a trim. “What style are you looking for, miss? Would you like a perm or coloring?”

Skylar’s answer was swift and clipped, startling him.

“Short.”

Short? He looked at her in the mirror. “How short are we talking?”

“Like yours,” she replied, the four words concise and final.

The barber’s mouth dropped open. His hair was cut short, almost military style. For a girl to request that would be a shocking transformation, bordering on turning her into a boy.

“Is there a problem?” Skylar frowned, her patience thinning. The clothing ordeal had wasted enough time; she wanted to get to the jewelry store.

The barber instinctively shook his head. Realizing she was entirely serious, he lifted the scissors and, without further argument, made the first decisive snip, shearing away the thick, concealing curtain of hair.

In the next moment, the face that was finally revealed in the mirror made the barber gasp, his hands freezing mid-air.