Page 43 of Illicit Games

“I don’t want normal.”

“It’s too late for you to back out anyway,” she teases. “I’m not letting you go.”

“Good girl.” My forehead touching hers, I ask, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If I’m foolish enough not to notice you in the next lifetime, stalk me there too. Find me and make me yours.”

Her eyes close as she rasps, “I promise, love.”

Chapter Twelve

Iris

The best type of therapy is shoe shopping.

At least for me.

After everything I’ve been through and the uphill battle coming my way, I deserve to splurge a little with my first-ever salary.

Seth drives me to an area of the city known for high-end fashion and luxurious brands’ stores. I’ve always come here with Rosalie and Bianca, browsing but never being able to purchase anything. I refused to let them buy things for me, despite their insistence, because I wanted to be their friend and not their charity case. It would’ve felt that way otherwise.

They respected my wishes. Except on my birthdays. They would drown me in gifts, not taking no for an answer.

Today, I won’t look at the price tag and walk away. I can afford them without having to sell my kidneys.

“I’m just going to look around,” I tell Seth, who’s shadowing me with vigilant eyes while walking three steps behind.

He nods in acknowledgment.

Hefting my tote bag higher, I skip to the high-end footwear store and enter it. Two of the sales associates’ gazes flit over to me. I smile at them, expecting a bright welcome they offer whenever I come with my best friends.

It doesn’t come.

They straighten from their perch against the billing register and inspect me from head to toe as though I’m a pariah who stumbled out of a portal.

“Yes?” one of them utters flatly.

“We’re not hiring at the moment,” snootily says the second salesgirl.

“Excuse me?” I reply, frowning. I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I’m dressed in a casual pair of jeans and a plain black cropped tee. “I’m here to shop for heels for a lunch party next week.”

Their faces perk up, and the first one asks excitedly, “For Mrs. D’Cruz or Mrs. Stern?”

“Are you their assistant?”

My jaw drops at their audacity as they assume I work for my best friends from all the times I’ve visited here. I didn’t think they could be this rude, that the thought of me being a customer is too unbelievable for them.

Do I look that poor?

I suddenly feel self-conscious, my exhilaration dwindling by the second.

“No, I’m here to shop for myself,” I answer them. “I’m going to look around.”

Ignoring their upturned noses, I turn away from them, intent on finding the high-heeled D’Orsay pumps I saw a few months ago and promptly leaving them. They’ll go perfectly with the cocktail gown I bought for Rosalie’s grand celebration. It’s both an opening ceremony as well as for raising funds.

As I’m browsing the stunning selection they have, a trio of girls around my age enter the store. They’re all dressed in expensive short dresses with an air of confidence around them that only comes from having a rich daddy. In short, they look like they belong here, unlike yours truly. The glaring proof comes when those same salesgirls greet them with eager little grins, offering them drinks and asking if they could help.