Page 90 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

“Outside the store.”

“Good. Go back in there.”

“What?”

“Go back in there and tell them exactly what you think of them. Then take a picture of that store name and warn every woman you know never to give them a single euro.”

My heart was still racing, but something else was building underneath the shame. Something that felt like anger. Like power. She was tapping into that adrenaline I had let those bitches steal. No one stole from me. No one took away my power.

“You’re right,” I said quietly.

“I know I’m right. You’re Cleo fucking Quinn. Nobody gets to make you feel small.”

I wiped my eyes. Lifted my chin. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now go be the badass I know you are.”

I hung up, turned around, and walked back into that boutique with my head high and my shoulders back. The three women looked up in surprise.

“I have something to say,” I announced.

The blonde one sighed. “Signorina, we already told you. There’s a boutique down the street. They might have something more suitable.”

“You don’t carry my size. I heard you.” I walked up to the counter. “What you don’t seem to understand is that this isn’t about what you carry. It’s about how you treat people. It’s about basic human decency, which apparently wasn’t included in your employee training.”

The brunette’s eyes narrowed. “I think you should leave.”

“I’m leaving. But first I’m going to make sure every woman I know, every follower I have and every person in my network understands exactly what kind of establishment this is. You don’t know me, but people listen to me. People care what I have to say, especially about fashion. Your basic bitch black went out in the nineties. Boring. Zero personality. But I suppose that suits the three of you and your hive mind.”

The blonde’s red lips stretched into a flat line.

“See, unlike you, I actually believe women of all sizes deserve to feel beautiful. And I have a platform to share that message. So thank you. Thank you for reminding me why the work I do matters.” I turned and walked out before they could respond.

My hands were still shaking, but this time it was adrenaline. Righteous fury. The good kind of rage that made you want to burn things down and build something better in their place. I snapped a picture of the storefront and the beautiful window display.

I pulled up Instagram and started typing a caption. All the vitriol I felt, all the hurt transmuted into words designed to expose exactly what had just happened. I included the photo of the boutique name. My finger hovered over the post button.

Then I stopped. Did I really want to do this? Lead with anger? With shame? Was that the message I wanted to send?

I was still deciding when I walked straight into someone.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I looked up.

Angelica Rossi stood in front of me, designer sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a dress that probably came from the very store I was about to blast. She looked me up and down with that same appraising expression I’d just gotten from the boutique women, and something in my chest went cold.

“Oh, love,” she said, her accent thick and condescending. “They don’t make clothes for you here.”

I stared at her.

She smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “Would you like me to point you toward stores that do? Somewhere more suitable?”

For a second I felt that shame try to crawl back up my throat. Then I laughed.

It surprised her. I could see it in the way her smile faltered, in the slight widening of her eyes. She took a step back like she was afraid. Like she wondered if I was unhinged and about to go off the rails.

As if I’d give the bitch the pleasure.

“For such a beautiful woman you truly are vile. Hideous. You should go in. The Ladies in Black need all the customers they can get because when I’m done with them, they’ll be lucky to get a job at Walmart.”