Diana adjusted her Celine sunglasses, her perfectly manicured fingers drumming an impatient, irritated rhythm on the glass coffee table.
"Next," Diana drawled, not even bothering to look up.
A young woman walked over and took a seat on the edge of the uncomfortable chair opposite the velvet sofa.
Diana peered over the rim of her sunglasses, performing her signature, agonizingly slow visual sweep.
The woman was dressed in a tailored, pale pink Chanel tweed suit. It was undeniably expensive, but Diana's eye caught the subtle, fatal flaws instantly. It was from three seasons ago. The edges of the cuffs were slightly frayed, and the matching heels had undeniable scuff marks on the soles.
It was the wardrobe of a woman trying desperately to cling to a tax bracket she had clearly fallen out of.
