Some women healed with wine.
Others with yoga.
Emilia preferred dressing rooms, retail tags, and the dull thud of her credit card hitting the counter.
“Tell me again why this place doesn’t serve champagne?” Maya asked, flopping dramatically onto the velvet loveseat outside the changing stalls. “We’re surrounded by ten-thousand-dollar dresses, and I’m parched.”
Emilia laughed, the sound bright and brief. “Because rich people hate fun.”
They were inside Maison LaRue, one of the most expensive couture boutiques in the city—a sleek, gold-accented haven of silk, attitude, and scandalously high price tags. The kind of place that smelled like vanilla, ambition, and vaguely concealed judgment.
Emilia was trying on a slate-blue, floor-length gown with draped sleeves and an open back. She emer
