Chapter Four

Cordelia's POV

"Whatever Garrett said, that's not my problem." I fold my arms. "You rang up eight hundred grand here today. Nobody walks out that door until it's paid."

"You're going to stop me? Girls, ignore this lunatic, let's go."

Bianca leads the charge toward the door.

Right then heavy footsteps sound outside, and a few big shapes fill the doorway and block it.

The door pulls open. A middle-aged man in a black leather jacket walks in, buzz cut, a tattoo just showing at his neck, a cigar in his mouth, four grim-faced heavies behind him.

He scans the wreck of the store and settles his eyes on Bianca, then spits out the cigar. "Leaving? Fine. Leave my money."

Bianca and her girls stumble back, spooked by the sudden show of force, and their shopping bags spill all over the floor.

"Who... who are you people? What do you want? This is a high-end mall. You try anything and I'm calling the cops." Bianca is scared, but she keeps up the front.

The man in the leather jacket lets out a cold laugh, ignores her, and walks straight up to me, forcing a polite smile. "Ms. Pruitt, the handoff's all done. The change of registration came through the Secretary of State's office this morning. I'm here to look the place over."

I nod, take a thick envelope out of the drawer, and hand it to him along with the tablet. "Fenimore, the inventory list, the surveillance footage, and the eight-hundred-grand confirmation form this woman just signed, it's all in there. As of now, this store, everything in it, and that bill, they're all yours."

Bianca's eyes go wide, like she can't believe it. "Cordelia! What is this? You sold the store?"

"What did you expect? That I'd hang onto it so you could keep freeloading?" I look at her, cold. "That's right, I sold it. This Éclat belongs to Mr. Fenimore now."

"No way. There's no way. Garrett said he owns half this store. Who gave you the right to sell it on your own?" Bianca shrieks, grabbing at her last straw.

"Garrett owns a stake? Have him bring the paperwork and show me." I scoff. "The startup capital, the registered owner, the person who actually controls this place, it's all under one name. Mine. Cordelia. I sell it to whoever I want."

I turn to Fenimore, keeping my voice level. "Fenimore, under the contract we signed, the store's stock goes to you at cost. But whatever these women damaged and hauled off today, that's on their tab. That money's yours to collect."

Fenimore looks at the signature on the tablet and the string of numbers, and his mouth spreads into a satisfied grin. "Eight hundred grand. Don't worry, Ms. Pruitt. When I do business, a debt's a debt. I'll get every last cent of this back."

He turns and walks over to Bianca.

He's six-three, with the kind of menace you only get running in those circles, and Bianca's knees give out. She drops straight onto the sofa.

"Bianca, is it?" Fenimore holds up the form and flicks it hard with a finger. "In black and white. Your signature. Eight hundred grand, plus that bottle of Romanée-Conti you drank. Round it off, call it eight hundred thirty. Card or transfer?"

"I... I don't have that kind of money..."

Bianca's voice shakes. It's finally sinking in that this man isn't Garrett, that she can't handle him with a pout and a guilt trip. "This... this is Cordelia setting me up. I didn't know she sold you the store. I came to pick up clothes from her."

"I don't care whose clothes you came for. All I know is what you're holding right now is my stock." Fenimore slams the table. "On my turf, you take something and don't pay, that's robbery. You think I'm running a charity?"

The four heavies behind him step forward and box in Bianca and the other women, eyes hard.

"Fenimore, please, wait!" Bianca is crying so hard her makeup runs, and she claws at my sleeve. "Cordelia! Say something for me! Tell him this is all a misunderstanding! You can't do this to me. Garrett will kill you when he finds out."

"A misunderstanding?"

I step back, out of her reach, and look at the state of her. "You were pretty smooth about it when you signed. Bianca, weren't you the one who said taking my things was doing me a favor? Well, they're Fenimore's things now. Take your time. Help yourself."

"You witch! You set me up!" Bianca screams, desperate, and whips around to Fenimore. "I really don't have that much. I've only got a hundred-something grand in my account. Just let me go, I don't want the clothes, I'll give them back!"

"Give them back?" Fenimore points at the couture gowns on the floor, packaging torn open, tried on, stained with wine.

"You think this is some flea-market junk? You people wore them, ruined them, and now you're telling me you don't want them? Too late. Today it's eight hundred thirty. A cent short and not one of you walks out of here on your own two feet."

Fenimore waves a hand, and the door swings shut and locks.