Chapter 3 - THE AFTERMATH IN THE BACK OFFICE
The heavy walnut door of the back office clicked shut, cutting off the muffled sounds of Vanessa Sterling’s parting threats as building security escorted her toward the mall atrium.
In the quiet sanctuary of the manager’s office, the air smelled faintly of high-end espresso and expensive leather. David dropped into his ergonomic desk chair, rubbed the bridge of his nose where a faint red indentation from his glasses had formed, and let out a long, ragged sigh.
“Remind me why we didn't elope in the mountains,” he muttered, looking up at me as I leaned against the doorframe.
“Because you love the drama of luxury retail too much,” I replied, walking over to his desk and dropping my tablet onto the blotter. “Though I have to admit, watching you deliver the line ‘My wife is Sophia’ was worth at least a twenty-percent commission bump.”
“It wasn't acting,” he said, a slow, tired grin finally breaking through his serious expression. He reached out, caught my hand, and pulled me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You know she’s going to leave a one-star Google review by tonight claiming we refused to sell her a watch because she wouldn't buy me dinner.”
“Let her,” I said, resting my hands on his shoulders. “Marcus already flagged her account as a lifetime ban. Between the security footage of her screaming at staff and the video that guy in the wool coat took, her husband’s legal team is going to have a heart attack if she tries to sue.”
The office door chimed softly, and Marcus poked his head in, looking professional and entirely unfazed by the hurricane that had just passed through.
“Excuse me, Mr. David, Sophia,” Marcus said, holding up a sleek leather cardholder. “She dropped this on her way out past the security gate. I thought you might want to log it into lost and found—or use the business card inside to send her husband a polite note about store policy.”
David took the cardholder from Marcus’s outstretched hand, flipped it open, and pulled out a heavy, embossed card bearing the name Sterling & Vance Capital.
“Sterling & Vance,” David mused, reading the address in the financial district. “Wait a minute. This isn't a hedge fund. This is a boutique commercial real estate firm that defaulted on three of their lease payments in our district last quarter.”
I leaned over his shoulder, scanning the fine print on the back of the card. “No wonder she was so desperate to flash wealth she didn't have. People who actually own steel Daytonas don't need to borrow an identity to get one.”
“Take it, Marcus,” David said, handing the cardholder back to the young sales associate. “Drop it in the secure bin for unclaimed property. If she comes back, she can deal with property management.”
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“Understood,” Marcus said with a sharp nod. “Oh, by the way—your client from the vintage Submariner case is back at the counter, Sophia. He wants to finalize the paperwork.”
“Good,” I said, kissing the top of David’s head before standing up and smoothing down my blazer. “Some people actually know how to buy a watch.”
