The heat of the sun pressed down as Heather trailed behind Lauren, her arms weighed down with shopping bags.
Designer logos from Chanel, Balenciaga, and Fendi dangled off her wrists like shackles. Her lower back ached, and her shoulders were stiff, but she kept her posture straight, her face blank.
Lauren walked ahead like she owned the pavement, strutting confidently in high heels, sunglasses perched on her nose, and her assistant trailing quietly behind, typing something on her phone.
Everywhere they went, heads turned. Cameras clicked. Paparazzi hovered nearby, careful but present.
Heather couldn't help but feel ridiculous—here she was, carrying bags like a personal shopper, while the same woman blackmailing her strutted free.
They finally stopped in front of a crowded coffee shop, the smell of espresso and warm pastries wafting through the open door.
Heather shifted the bags on her arms, already planning how quickly she could be done with this.
