"I'd be happy to assist," she says evenly, shooting Daniel a brief glance before turning her full attention back to the client. "What kind of fit are you looking for?"

I know what she's doing. Redirecting. Trying to get the conversation back on track. But I also know exactly the sort of guy this is, and I know he's enjoying himself.

Daniel, the associate she was trying to pass him off to, stands a few feet away, clearly uncertain. He glances at Isabella once, like he's waiting for her to signal him to step in, but she doesn't.

Because she knows she can't.

Not without making it worse.

The client hums, finally looking at the suits like he actually gives a damn about them. "A cut that's classic, but not boring. I have an event coming up, and I need to look good. Not that I ever don't."

Isabella smiles just enough to be polite. "Of course."

I grind my teeth.

He's toying with her.

She knows it. I know it.

And neither of us can do a damn thing about it.

"This is a beautiful collection," Isabella says smoothly, gesturing to the designer suits draped over the armrest. "We just got the new season in last week. You'll be one of the first to experience it."

"Hmm," the man hums, his attention now turning fully to her. Too much attention.

Isabella doesn't fidget, doesn't retreat. She holds her position, shoulders squared, expression neutral. She's been here before.

"I have to say," the man continues, his voice casual, like they're old friends sharing an inside joke, "the customer service in this store is exceptional."

"I'm glad to hear that," she replies, still professional, but she’s got a tell. She adjusts the sleeves of her blazer, looking down.

"I mean it," the man insists, setting down his drink on the marble side table. "I always feel... taken care of here."

There it is. The shift.

I see it in the way his posture shifts—the subtle lean forward, the way his eyes skim her face and briefly dip before meeting hers again. He’s gauging her reaction, testing what she’ll allow.

She doesn't give him an inch.

"Customer satisfaction is a top priority for us," she says, keeping her voice even.

"That's good to hear. I always appreciate feeling satisfied."

It's subtle. Just a little too familiar, a little too comfortable.

And it's enough to make my grip tighten against the armrest of my chair.

Isabella shifts slightly, reaching for a nearby tablet, effectively putting a barrier between them. "Would you like me to have these tailored for you? I believe we have your measurements on file.”

The man watches her for a beat longer than necessary. “Such excellent customer service, as always. It’s why I ask for you specifically.”

He stands, reaching into his pocket for a black card, handing it over with the same lazy, confident ease as every man who's ever assumed he's untouchable.

She takes it, nodding once. "I'll have the transaction processed right away."

He holds onto it a second longer than he should before finally letting go.

I don't like it.

Not just him, but the entire unspoken exchange.

I don't like the way Isabella had to sidestep instead of shut him down. I don't like the way she had to be careful when he had the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted.

And I really don't like the way I know this isn't the first time she's had to deal with it.

The transaction wraps up quickly after that. She hands him the receipt, thanks him for his business, and waits for him to leave before exhaling a slow, measured breath. Not frustrated. Not rattled. Just tired.

I flip through the other cameras, tracking the man's exit. He walks out like he owns the place, adjusts his cuffs, slides into the back of a black car waiting at the curb.

I make a note of his license plate.

Just in case.

I lean back, flexing my fingers, trying to shake the tension from my hands. This isn't my business.

But I don't like that it's hers. And I like even less that I know she'll probably be dealing with men like him tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

I shut off the feed, push back from the desk, and head to check on her.

JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE PATRIARCHY

IZZY

By the time I get back to my office, my face hurts from holding in every retort and comeback I wanted to throw at that man. My cheeks ache from the forced smile.

I shut the door harder than I need to, drop my tablet on the desk, and brace myself against the surface. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the silence of my office sink in. It’s the first real stillness I’ve had all day.

Breathe.

This isn't new. I've dealt with this before. Men like that exist in every luxury retail store, in every city, in every industry where they have money and power and the delusion that because they can buy expensive merchandise, they can buy people too.

It shouldn't get to me, and usually it doesn't. I've developed a professional armor over the years—a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes, a tone that stays just this side of cordial. But the way that guy insisted on my attention today, how his eyes lingered a beat too long on my body, makes my skin crawl in a way I can't easily dismiss.

I push off my desk and march straight to the mini fridge in the corner of my office. The one corporate says is technically for storing complimentary beverages for VIP appointments, but in reality has become my personal refuge. I pull open the door, the cool air hitting my face as I reach inside for my emergency stash of Coke Zeros.

The aluminum can feels cool against my palm as I pop the tab with a satisfying hiss. I take a long sip, the carbonation fizzing against my tongue, and lean back against my desk, finally letting my shoulders drop for the first time all day. The tension begins to loosen in my neck as I close my eyes.

The moment lasts exactly five seconds before my door swings open.

"Okay, what the fuck was that?"

Amanda strides in, stilettos clicking against the floor like rapid gunfire, eyes narrowed in full hot-girl aggression mode. Her blonde hair swings with each determined step.

Amanda Bennett isn't just my assistant manager—she's my friend. My blonde, sassy-as-hell, takes-no-shit-from-anyone friend. The one who divorced her useless husband at twenty-two, reclaimed her independence, and now treats men like expensive handbags—fun to have, easy to replace, and never worth settling for just one.

She stops in front of my desk, arms crossed, waiting for an answer. Her perfectly manicured nails tap impatiently against her forearm.

I take another sip of my soda, the cold liquid soothing my throat. "Which part?"

"The part where Mr. Wall Street Handsy requested your personal attention like you were some kind of high-end call girl," she says, eyebrows raised. "And don't tell me you didn't notice, because I was about three seconds from tripping into that fitting room and rescuing you myself."

I groan, rubbing my temple where a dull headache is beginning to form. "It was fine."

"It was not fine. It was gross."

"It's part of the job."

Amanda lets out a humorless laugh, the sound echoing in my small office. "No. Selling overpriced handbags to people who don't need them is part of the job. Flirting with men who can't take a hint isn't."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the tension creeping back. "I wasn't flirting."