The sign on the glass door of Maison Dubois read CLOSED FOR PRIVATE APPOINTMENT, but the way the manager was sweating suggested the appointment was more of a hostile takeover.
I stepped out of the armored SUV, clutching the Black Card Cyprian had tossed me like a ninja star. The pavement of the Fashion District was heated, melting the morning frost, but the air was still crisp enough to bite through Cyprian’s oversized dress shirt, which I had tucked into my pencil skirt with makeshift desperation.
"Mr. Hale," the manager stammered, bowing low enough to inspect his own shoes. "We didn't expect... we thought you would send a stylist."
"My wife dresses herself," Cyprian said, his hand warm and heavy on the small of my back. He guided me inside, past the velvet ropes. "She needs a wardrobe
