In the blink of an eye, a shopping spree meant to offer her comfort and relaxation was turned into an encounter of disgust and frustration.
And the culprit—dressed in an obnoxiously pink dress and heels that looked as uncomfortable in height as they looked to wear—sauntered over to her with a smile that screamed she was up to no good.
“Well, well, if it isn't the great philanthropist of the Quinellia gala,” Camille's voice sounded like a fork against glass in Mirena's ear.
She resisted the urge to scrunch her face up—forcing her expression to remain neutral, or at least, tried to.
A frown successfully crossed her expression as Camille came into her personal space, assaulting her nostrils with a scent disgustingly hers.
“You’re all alone?” Camille made a show of looking aro
