“Exactly. Thank you for making my case.” She sips her champagne like she’s just won an argument. “I like them gray, fine, and refined.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Chani, one of these days an ex-wife is going to roll up on you and demand her husband back.”
In the end, I settle on both the Prada halterandthe Simkhai mini. Chantal tells me I’ll look gorgeous in both, whichever one I decide to wear to the mixer.
We head to the counter, arms loaded with bags and hangers. The sales associate rings everything up with an enthusiastic smile, pleased she’ll be earning a hefty commission off us.
I hand over the family black card without a second thought.
She swipes it, then pauses. Her smile falters as she swipes it again. “It says declined.”
I’m digging in my purse, pulling out my compact to check my makeup. “That’s impossible. Run it again.”
She does just that, running it a third time to the same result.
“Miss, this card is no good. Do you have another?”
My stomach tightens. I pull out another card—the backup royale deluxe—and hand it over.
But that’s declined too once she runs it through the card machine.
Chantal’s eyes go wide and she whispers, “Sim, what’s happening?”
“We do have alternatives,” the sales associate says. Her tone is still polite, except with a condescending undercurrent. “We offer store credit if?—”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say quickly.
A couple of shoppers glance over. My cheeks warm, though I keep my face neutral. I step away from the counter, my pulse pounding in my ears.
It’s Dad. It has to be.
I pull out my phone and call him. He answers on the first ring.
“Princess,” he says in greeting. He almost sounds amused. “Thought that would get your attention.”
“What the hell, Dad?”
“Come home. We need to talk.”
“Why did you?—”
“Now, Simone. It’s important.”
The line goes dead.
I stand still for a moment, staring at my phone, my chest tightening with a mix of confusion and anger.
Chantal appears at my side, concern written all over her face. “What’s going on?”
I force a smile, even though I’m tense. “Ihave to go.”
“Do you want me to?—”
“It’s okay. I’ll handle it. Text you later.”
I leave the dresses on the counter, grab my purse, and march out of Bergdorf Goodman with my head high.
But inside I’m already bracing for whatever storm is waiting for me at home…