PART 5: The Unraveling
PART 5: The Unraveling
Personal assistants shatter fragile illusions.
The back corner of the boutique was quiet, far away from the main entrance, bathed in soft recessed lighting.
Brittany crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against a display pedestal as if she were doing me a massive personal favor by gracing me with her attention.
"See? This is more your speed," she said, pointing to a small rack of last-season clearance items marked down significantly. "Simple scarves, basic cardigans, things people wear when they don't want to stand out. Though honestly, on you, even these might look a bit ambitious."
I picked up a silk scarf from the rack, running my fingers smoothly across the hem, feeling the exquisite weight of the mulberry fabric.
"It’s lovely," I murmured. "Are you sure someone like me can pull this off?"
"Well, it’s hard to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, as they say," Brittany laughed maliciously, clearly enjoying her little power trip. "But hey, if you want to pretend you're sophisticated for an afternoon, go right ahead. Just make sure you have the cash ready at the register. We don't take checks from people who look like they wandered out of a retirement home."
Before I could deliver my reply, the crisp sound of heels clicking against the marble floor echoed down the aisle.
My personal assistant, Patricia, stepped into view, holding a sleek leather folio and a tablet displaying our daily corporate schedule.
Patricia stopped directly beside me, offering a polite, professional nod.
"Founder Reed," Patricia said clearly, her voice cutting cleanly through the quiet space. "The regional board members have arrived in the executive boardroom on the fourth floor. Mr. Vance has the quarterly financial audits prepared for your signature."
Brittany’s smug expression froze instantly.
Her mouth opened slightly as she looked between Patricia and me, her brain desperately trying to compute what had just been said.
"Excuse me?" Brittany stammered, offering an awkward, nervous chuckle. "What did you just call her? Founder Reed? Stop playing games. She's my mother-in-law! Her husband was a retired high school teacher, and she drives a beat-up twenty-year-old Honda Civic!"
Patricia didn't blink. She didn't crack a smile.
She simply looked at Brittany with the cold, unyielding professionalism of someone addressing an unruly insect.
"I beg your pardon," Patricia said smoothly. "You are speaking to Mrs. Eleanor Reed. And as for her vehicle, she owns three residences in Manhattan, a vineyard in Napa, and the entirety of this corporate group."
Brittany shook her head frantically, stepping back as if she had been physically struck.
"No... no, that's impossible! She’s just Ethan’s mom! She’s a nobody!"
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"She is the woman whose signature signs your paycheck every two weeks," Patricia replied coldly.
And then, to punctuate the moment, the double doors of the private executive elevator at the end of the hall chimed softly, sliding open to reveal Marcus Vance and the store general manager walking briskly toward us.
