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“Excuse me?”

“Your name.”

“Marianne.”

“Last name?”

“Mitchell,” Layla says. “It's fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

She moves closer and lowers her voice.

“I don't need you to get someone fired because she was rude to me.”

There it is. Of course. Even after being treated like shit, Layla doesn't immediately reach for the nuclear option.

Integrity.

Again.

Christ, this woman is going to make things complicated.

“I didn't say I was getting her fired.”

“You're doing that billionaire thing.”

“What billionaire thing?”

“The one where you ask someone's full name and three minutes later they disappear from society.”

“I don't make people disappear.”

She gives me a look.

“Professionally,” I amend.

“Mitchell.”

“Fine.”

I look at Marianne.

“I won't ask your last name.”

Relief. Another mistake.

“I don't need it.”

Her face falls.

“I know the head of this store.”

Of course I do.

We've attended the same charitable boards, business dinners, and painfully boring functions for years.

“I intend to tell him exactly how our shopping experience went today.”