Chapter 23 - The Sovereign Fitting Room
The woman who swept into the center of Maison Étoile was wrapped in a floor-length silver-fox fur coat that rustled with every sharp step of her snakeskin stiletto boots. Her bleached-blonde hair was styled into an immaculate, rigid coif, and her throat was adorned with a heavy choker of south-sea pearls. Clutched in her hand was a limited-edition crocodile Birkin bag, while behind her trailed a weary-looking young assistant weighed down by half a dozen shopping bags bearing luxury logos.
This was Beatrice Thorne—socialite, philanthropist in name only, and wife of Dominic Thorne, the regional managing director of Vanguard Great Lakes Logistics.
"It is utterly freezing out there, Gerard," Beatrice complained loudly, untying her fur coat to reveal an emerald-green designer tunic. She tossed the heavy coat directly into Gerard’s eager, waiting arms without even looking at him. "My daughter-in-law’s baby shower is on Friday, and I refuse to present an ordinary gift. I want the finest hand-loomed cashmere layette set in this city, and I expect your private fitting salon to be prepped with vintage champagne and imported pastries immediately."
"Of course, Mrs. Thorne! Everything is arranged for your absolute comfort," Gerard purred, bowing repeatedly like a court jester before a monarch. He turned toward the private archway that led to the boutique’s lavish VIP viewing room—a plush sanctuary lined with silk wallpaper, velvet armchairs, and antique oak display cabinets.
However, as Gerard stepped toward the VIP salon, he noticed Naomi standing quietly near the entrance. Naomi had walked toward the open archway to keep Lily away from the cold draft blowing in from the street, gently swaying to soothe her daughter, who had stirred slightly at Beatrice’s loud entrance.
Beatrice’s sharp, heavily contoured gaze fell upon Naomi and the baby. Her penciled eyebrows arched in instant, visceral disgust.
"Gerard," Beatrice snapped, her voice carrying a venomous chill that froze the air in the shop. "Why is there an unwashed woman holding a baby standing directly in front of the private salon entrance? This is supposed to be an exclusive, appointment-only boutique, not a public subway platform."
Gerard’s face flushed with panic. He rushed over to Naomi, stepping between her and Beatrice as if shielding a royal personage from a common vagrant.
"Ma’am," Gerard hissed in a furious whisper, glaring at Naomi with open hostility. "I told you to wait by the luggage rack near the back door! You are blocking the private salon for our most prestigious VIP client. Move your child out of the way immediately!"
Naomi did not move an inch. Her posture remained straight, serene, and unyielding. She looked down at Lily, who had nuzzled her tiny face against Naomi’s collarbone, safe and unbothered, before raising her cool, dark eyes to look directly into Gerard’s trembling, angry face.
"My order was confirmed for three o'clock, Gerard," Naomi said, her voice quiet, perfectly even, and utterly devoid of fear. "My invoice includes the private suite inspection to verify the fabric weave for infant safety compliance. I am not moving to the luggage rack."
Beatrice Thorne let out a sharp, theatrical scoff, marching forward until she stood barely three feet from Naomi, trailing a thick cloud of suffocating floral perfume.
"Listen to me, little girl," Beatrice snarled, pointing a long, diamond-encrusted fingernail within inches of Naomi’s face. "I don't care what little coupon or layaway plan you scraped together to buy a bib in this establishment. Do you have any idea who I am? I am Beatrice Thorne. My husband runs the entire maritime and freight infrastructure of the Great Lakes! He commands thousands of men and signs contracts worth tens of millions of dollars! If I want this entire boutique cleared of common trash, it happens with one word from my mouth!"
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Naomi looked at the trembling diamond finger, then slowly raised her gaze to Beatrice’s furious, arrogant eyes. A faint, razor-thin smile touched the corner of Naomi’s lips—the cold, terrifying amusement of an apex predator observing a field mouse make grand speeches.
"Your husband commands thousands of men, Mrs. Thorne?" Naomi asked, her voice dropping into an icy, crystalline whisper that seemed to drop the room’s temperature by ten degrees. "How fascinating. Let us see how long that command lasts when the bill comes due."
