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The second is her mouth. She's worrying her lower lip again.

Her nervous tell.

The one I noticed at the gala. The one I saw yesterday when I mentioned black tie.

Except now I understand it—at least part of it. And something ugly and furious uncurls in my chest.

I stop beside her. Not in front of her.

Right fucking beside her.

There's a difference. A distinction. And the saleswoman notices.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, turning my head to look at her, cutting off the saleswoman completely.

“She was just explaining that this floor doesn't carry my size,” Layla says.

Her voice is perfectly even.

Professional. Cool.

Reporter Hawthorne is back. Except I saw the woman underneath her for half a second. And I don't like what this asshole did to her.

The saleswoman only rushes in after recognizing me, who I am, and what I can do to her career.

“We have a very limited range in couture, Mr. Knight. I'm sure you understand. These designers simply don't manufacture certain pieces beyond⁠—”

“I understand perfectly.”

Relief crosses her face.

Mistake.

“I understand that Miss Hawthorne walked into your department prepared to spend money, told you precisely what she needed, and instead of doing your job, you made her feel as though she didn't belong here.”

“I certainly didn't mean⁠—”

“You asked if she was in the right place.”

Layla finally looks at me. The woman pales.

“I only meant⁠—”

“I heard what you meant.”

Silence.

Good.

I don't raise my voice. I rarely do. People tend to pay closer attention when I get quieter.

“You could have told her that particular designer doesn't manufacture the dress in her size. You could have offered alternatives. You could have called another department, another location, or another designer. You could have done any number of things that might reasonably be described as customer service.”

Her face reddens.

“Instead, you looked at her and decided she wasn't worthy of shopping on this floor.”

“Mitchell—”