Paloma Perez.
The woman wasn’t lying—this really is a VIP room. It’s an entire, glowing space with racks and racks of shoes, handbags, dresses, and designer labels. There are racks of clothes in every color and fabric, from denim to silk, and two assistants in uniform are gently shifting through the selections like they’re handling glass.
Elijah’s on the phone at the far end of the room. Meanwhile, I’m spinning in slow circles while my eyes dart across everything. A man in a black vest pours champagne into a flute beside a tower of macarons. On mirrored trays, there are fruits arranged like art, cookies, warm towels folded beside the flutes.
I don’t recall Rebekah say she was going to buy the whole store for me. So this? This VIP room looks like it swallowed the runway whole. I know fo
