Bad Hair Day, Worse Husband
On a public holiday, I took Henry's mom, Johanna, to a new salon at Vanderbilt Court for a makeover.
Halfway through, she suddenly cried out. I rushed over—burnt smell hit me hard. I yanked the machine off her head.
Too late. Her hair was fried. Blisters spread across her scalp.
I called the salon manager. She barely looked at us, lips curling. "What a hassle. If you can't afford luxury, don't pretend. I won't charge you. Now get out."
I pointed at her. "You burned my mother-in-law. You're paying for her treatment and taking her to the hospital. Or I report this."
Her brows shot up. Hands on her hips. "Oh, so now you're faking injuries for money? You even broke our premium equipment. You owe me a hundred grand today. And just so you know—this whole mall? My husband owns it. Pay up, or I'll make you."
My heart stuttered.
Vanderbilt Court... Johanna had just bought it and handed it to Henry.
And he really had a side chick right under our noses.