Anna
I hate it.
I hate it all.
We are sitting in the private room of New York's most exclusive boutique with a name so French that I can't even pronounce it. The room spells luxury and there are mirrors all around. Sitting on the sofa beside Monica and Mrs. Walton I sipped my champagne as the manager of the store kept gushing about his delight to be given the opportunity to them for the selection of dresses that will be on the cover of every single newspaper and magazine tomorrow. There are three lines of the most beautiful gowns I have ever seen and probably will only ever see again on television.
This is a once in a lifetime experience for me, and yet my heart is aching for something that will never be mine.
Sitting here, I can feel the difference between me and David so vividly. We
