Burgundy Pocketbook Novels & Stories

There was a steadiness about her that made the room feel quieter. 'The bag from the security footage.' She took a breath. 'I have spent the past two weeks working a contact at the design house. I wanted to be certain before I brought you anything.' My smile faded. I straightened in my chair. 'Tell me.' 'It is a Maison Vellier. The Nuit Doree collection.' She opened the laptop and turned it toward me. On the screen was a product image. Dark canvas, gold hardware, a small monogram stamped low on the front panel at a very specific angle. 'Limited production run. Thirty bags made worldwide.'

"No return address." The package is small, rectangular. Brown paper, twine tied in a clean knot. Deliberate wrapping, like someone took time. Ava perks up. Medication forgotten. "For me?" "Let's see." I pull the twine loose, peel back the paper. Inside: a hardcover book. ‘The Paper Bag Princess’ by Robert Munsch. The cover shows a girl in a paper bag facing down a dragon, crown askew, determination written across her illustrated face.

she said before she left my room. I look at the purse. It is a small, clutch-style purse, crafted from soft lavender leather, adorned with subtle floral patterns embossed along its edges. It is beautiful and I like it. A dainty silver clasp secures its contents, while slender chain allows it to be carried gracefully on my shoulder if needed. Inside, the purse can only hold essentials. I put my lipstick, cellular phone, and my delicate handkerchief in and carefully arranged it to maintain the purse’s tidy appearance.

Then, in the third drawer, I saw scarves, sunglasses, and a leather journal. My fingers trembled as I opened it. Briar's handwriting covered the first few pages. Shopping lists. Appointment reminders. I shoved the journal back, not bothering to position it exactly right. The closet was next. I pulled clothes aside and checked the pockets. A gas receipt. Gum wrappers. Seventy-three cents in change. Behind the hanging dresses, shoe boxes were stacked three high. I pulled them down one by one. Jimmy Choo's and Louboutin. The third box was brown and generic with no label. I opened it. It was a box of tampons.

“Luxury and the Lonely Heart” I ignore her. Not because I’m annoyed, okay, maybe 12% annoyed, but mostly because I can’t string a coherent thought together when my brain is wrapped around a maybe-date that may never happen. CALLIE: hellooo? do i need to FaceTime you into inspiration?? The boutique lady hands me a branded bag on the way out. “A small gift from the Maison,” she says, like I didn’t just sweat through a £900 dress for their content. Inside the bag, I see a pair of satin gloves, a tiny vial of perfume in a fancy box, a silk scarf, and a gift card I will absolutely use irresponsibly.

“No, silly. You’ve got an admirer.” My stomach sank. I already know who it was. With a flourish, she revealed another bouquet; smaller, but blood-red roses this time and a sleek box tied with a white Hermès ribbon. My throat went dry. When I peeled the wrapping back, my worst fears materialized. Inside lay a crocodile-skin Hermès Birkin. Limited release. Rare vintage. The kind of bag my friends drooled over in magazines while calculating how many organs they’d need to sell to afford it despite being from wealthy families.

the card read in bold, practiced script. As she moved from one box to the next, the variety was dizzying. A rare perfume in a bottle shaped like a teardrop, its scent sharp even before uncapping. A tailored silk shawl in midnight blue, embroidered with her initials. A leather-bound journal, its pages gilt-edged, with an ornate fountain pen tucked neatly beside it. One particularly large box revealed a porcelain tea set, ivory white with gold trim, clearly imported, delicate enough that she handled each piece like glass. Another was filled with art books, limited editions from Milan, their weight satisfying in her hands.

For finishing touches, she took a pack of cigarette purse, a bigger version three times the size of an average pack with stone adornment which were custom-made for her by Louis Vuitton when Araceli was back in France the previous year, and she gave Amy a glass see-through purse to hold on to. Then they headed downstairs to go meet the boys. "Hey, do you want to know why I changed my look today of all days?" Amy asked Araceli as they walked down the stairs gently because of their five inch heels. The tiles were made of the same marble tiles which could cause a huge catastrophic fall if they weren't careful.

Pink ribbons were tied around the car, and the wheels, with their silver alloy, shone like they’d never touched the road. I stared at the absurd display, wondering if this was another of Byron’s stupid gestures. Resting on top of the hood was a bouquet made entirely of hundred-dollar bills, folded meticulously to look like roses. Beside it sat a Hermès Birkin bag made of crocodile leather. It was all so over the top, so Byron. Just as I stood there, taking in the ridiculous display, he appeared beside me with a smirk. “Surprise!” he announced, his arms spread as if he expected me to leap joyfully. I rolled my eyes to the sky, praying for patience.

She frowns looking at Beauden entering the room with several bags and a garment bag. Beauden put the bags on the sofa beside Wissy. “I bought you something.” “Didn't we do enough shopping yesterday?" She looks inside one of the bags and smiles. Beauden lay the garment bag across the back of the sofa. “These are some things you'll need.” “Thank you.” Wissy takes a laptop, tablet, and two bottles of 1811 Chateau d’Yquem. It's the same wine she was drinking on her birthday.