“Yes. You understand.” Linda’s words felt like a test, wrapped in politeness. A woman near the accessories rack pretended not to listen. A teenage girl by the mirror glanced over and then quickly looked away.
“I have the money,” Amara said quietly.
Linda tilted her head. “Of course. I’m just suggesting you bring a parent or guardian if you’re serious about this kind of investment.”
The humiliation was subtle but undeniable, settling over Amara like a weight she hadn’t asked to carry. She swallowed, her pride fighting with the sting behind her eyes. “Fine,” she said softly. “I’ll call my mom.”
Amara stood near the fitting rooms after sending a short message: “Mom, can you come to Rose & Regal right now?” She didn’t add details. She didn’t need to. Her mother, Renee Brooks, was a woman who understood tone even through text. If her daughter asked her to come immediately, she would.
Linda hovered near the front counter, pretending to sort receipts but casting frequent glances toward Amara. Each glance carried quiet judgment. The boutique’s once relaxed atmosphere had shifted into something brittle, as though the air itself had grown thinner.
“So,” Linda said eventually, approaching again, “is someone on their way?”
“Yes,” Amara answered.
Linda smoothed her blazer again. “We simply have to protect our merchandise.”
“From what?”
“From misunderstandings.”
The automatic doors of the mall slid open outside the store, and moments later, the measured sound of heels echoed across the tile corridor. Renee Brooks entered the boutique with quiet authority, dressed in a navy sheath dress and carrying a structured leather tote. She did not rush. She did not look angry. She looked observant.
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