The coat.
Jet-black leather trench. Understated, but impossible to overlook. A piece that didn’t follow trends. It outlasted them.
Before she could think it through, her steps closed the distance.
Her fingers skimmed over the details like braille: the modest Burberry lining whispering class, lapels cut with deliberate drama, stitching precise enough to pass inspection under a microscope.
A worthwhile investment. Not flashy. Not impractical. Just…right.
“This isn’t just a coat,”she murmured.
“No,” Penny breathed, appearing at her shoulder, her haul of color and chaos a sharp contrast to the coat’s elegant restraint. “It’s a weapon. Put it on.”
Arden shot her a look: part surrender, part skepticism. Penny removed the trench from its mannequin before Arden could protest.
“Stop overthinking,” she said, handing it over. “Certain things demand wearing. Not admiring.”
The leather settled over Arden’s shoulders with perfect weight. Solid, grounded, without stiffness.
No excess. No pretense.
Clean lines. Impeccable tailoring. Built to endure.
The lapels framed her collarbones, armor in soft leather.
In the mirror, she didn’t see a statement. She saw alignment. Unnervingly precise.
“Oh, hell,” Penny muttered, propping herself against a rack. “You’re not just dangerous in that. You’re killer.”
Then her grin spread, eyes dancing with delight and something deeper.
“It’s your essence in leather. Timeless. Unapologetic. Exactly the right amount of terrifying.”
Arden had to admit, a quiet thrill stirred beneath her skin as her fingers skimmed the flawless stitching. “You’re not wrong.”
Penny tilted her head, studying her. “I get the feeling you don’t make impulse buys.”
“No. I don’t.” Arden’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
She’d grown up knowing what it meant to have nothing. New clothes were a rarity. Saving money? A fantasy her father made sure stayed out of reach.
Every purchase had to matter.
Maybe that’s why she’d built a safety net sturdy enough to weather anything.
If the floor gave way tomorrow, she wouldn’t just survive the fall. She’d rise.
The job at The Blackwell Room wasn’t survival. It was strategy.
And if it didn’t work out? She’d land on her feet. She always did.
Penny hummed thoughtfully, tucking that truth away to revisit later.
Then her bright smile returned, triumphant. “If you’re still standing here with it, it’s already yours.”
The thought dropped and stayed. Simple. Certain.
She reached into her bag without thinking, halfway to the counter. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
