Victoria Ashford had never been humiliated like this in her entire life.
She stood in her penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, still wearing the Chanel suit from this morning's disaster, her hands shaking with rage as she poured herself a third glass of wine.
That little bitch. That nobody. That former maid had made a fool of her in front of dozens of witnesses at Bergdorf Goodman.
The memory played on repeat in her mind like a nightmare she couldn't wake from: the sales associate's apologetic but firm voice explaining that the shoes were a custom commission for Miss Chen. The way other shoppers had started to whisper and stare. The realization that Damien had commissioned custom Louboutins for his pet project.
And the worst part....the absolute worst part....was the look in Aria's eyes. Not triumph. Not gloating. Just... pity. Like Victoria was some sad, pathetic creature to be pitied rather than feared.
