The heavy camel coat lay in a heap on the polished marble floor. Victoria stood frozen, her manicured fingers gripping the empty clear plastic hanger so tightly her knuckles turned white. The sharp click of the regional director’s heels stopped right behind her.
“Catherine,” Victoria stammered. Her voice was pitching up an octave, losing all its previous authority. “Thank god you’re here.”
Catherine didn’t answer right away. She stood perfectly still, her dark eyes scanning the scene. The soft, expensive lighting of the boutique suddenly felt like an interrogation lamp. The air conditioning hummed, a low, steady drone that filled the suffocating silence.
“Why is the Fall Collection on the floor, Victoria?” Catherine asked. Her voice was smooth, cultured, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Victoria spun around. Her blonde bob swung sharply. She forced a tight, practiced smile, but her eyes were darting frantically between Catherine and me. She pointed the empty hanger at me like a weapon.
“This woman was trying to damage the merchandise,” Victoria lied. The words tumbled out fast, desperate. “She was pulling at the stitching. She was ruining the cashmere. I was just protecting the inventory.”
My stomach twisted. I looked down at the coat. The fabric was pristine. Not a single thread was pulled. The rich, caramel hue of the cashmere gleamed under the track lighting.
“Catherine, I’ve been managing this floor for five years,” Victoria continued, her voice rising. “I know my VIPs. I know who has the spending power and who doesn’t. She’s a tourist. A window shopper. I told her to go to the outlet in Jersey, and she threw a fit.”
Catherine finally looked at me. Her expression was unreadable. She took in my simple white t-shirt, my tailored camel trousers, my lack of designer handbags.
“Is that true, ma’am?” Catherine asked. Her tone was polite, but the underlying steel was unmistakable.
“I didn’t touch the stitching,” I said. My voice was steady. I kept my hands clasped in front of me. “I was examining the lining. Then she grabbed it.”
Victoria scoffed. She took a step toward me, her white blazer rustling. “She’s lying! Look at her. She doesn’t even belong in this store.”
Catherine reached into her blazer pocket. She pulled out a sleek, black leather tablet. She tapped the screen twice. The boutique’s overhead speakers crackled softly.
“Victoria,” Catherine said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Do you know who this is?”
Victoria blinked. She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. “I… I don’t know. Some random girl.”
“This is Elena Rostova,” Catherine said. She turned the tablet around so Victoria could see the screen. It was a live feed of the store’s corporate sales dashboard. At the very top, in bold green letters, was a single, massive transaction. “She just purchased the entire remaining inventory of the Fall Collection. All forty-two coats. For the corporate gifting division of her firm.”
The silence in the room didn’t just fall. It collapsed.
Victoria’s mouth opened and closed. The empty plastic hanger slipped from her fingers. It clattered loudly against the marble floor, the sound echoing off the glass walls like a gunshot.
“Forty… forty-two coats?” Victoria whispered. Her face drained of color. She looked at the heap of cashmere on the floor, then at the tablet, then at me. “But… but the commission…”
“You just told the biggest single-sale client in the history of this flagship store to go to Jersey,” Catherine said. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. “And you threw our most expensive piece on the floor.”
“Catherine, please,” Victoria begged. Her arrogant posture completely collapsed. She looked small, shivering in her pristine white suit. “I didn’t know. I was just trying to protect the brand. I’ll pick it up. I’ll steam it. Please.”
“You’re done, Victoria,” Catherine said coldly. She tapped her earpiece. “Marcus, come to the front floor. Escort Victoria to the back office to collect her things. She is no longer employed by this boutique.”
Two large men in dark uniforms stepped out from the stockroom. They didn’t look at me. They walked straight to Victoria.
“This is insane!” Victoria shrieked as Marcus gently but firmly took her arm. “She’s just a girl! You’re firing me over a coat!”
They escorted her through the heavy glass doors at the back. Her protests faded into the hum of the air conditioning.
Catherine turned back to me. Her expression softened, just a fraction. She bent down and carefully picked up the camel coat. She brushed a speck of dust from the lapel and handed it to me.
“I am so sorry, Ms. Rostova,” she said. “Let me have the team wrap your order. And please, take this one with you today. On the house.”
I took the heavy coat. The cashmere was soft, warm against my hands.
I stepped out into the crisp Manhattan afternoon, the heavy camel coat warm against my shoulders, the empty plastic hanger gleaming on the marble floor behind me.