Chapter twenty-three
Lindsay
The security detail is putting me on edge.
They don't hover exactly—but they're there, always half a step behind, eyes scanning, hands near earpieces. I keep glancing over my shoulder, convinced I'm about to do something wrong simply by existing.
One of them—tall, stone-faced, built like he could bench-press a car—opens doors before I reach them. Another trails to my left, keeping perfect distance. A third watches the street like every passing pedestrian is a threat.
"This is normal," Quinn says cheerfully, adjusting the lapel of her plaid jacket like she's immune to the tension radiating off me. "You'll stop noticing them eventually. Or you won't. Either way, they don't bite."
I glance at the nearest guard. He doesn't react.
"That's not reassuring."
Quinn grins. "They're here to protect you, not judge you. Big difference."
We're in an upscale shopping district—glass storefronts, minimalist displays, price tags that look like dares.
This is the kind of place I would've walked past a month ago, pretending I didn't care.
Now I can.
That still feels unreal.
Quinn steers me toward a boutique with floor-to-ceiling windows and lighting that makes everything glow like art. A saleswoman appears instantly, smile practiced, eyes assessing.
"Good afternoon. Can I—"
Quinn cuts her off with a raised hand. "We're browsing. We'll shout if we need something."
The woman's smile tightens, but she retreats.
I exhale, grateful.
Quinn takes one look at a rack of aggressively expensive dresses—silk, sequins, designer labels screaming from the tags—and snorts.
"Nope. That's a markup masquerading as taste," she declares, steering me away with a firm hand. "Money doesn't mean you have to dress like a walking receipt."
I laugh despite myself, following her deeper into the store.
She pauses at a navy blazer, runs her fingers over the fabric, checks the stitching. "This is better. Well-made. Flattering cut. Won't fall apart after three wears."
I glance at the price tag and wince. Still expensive—but not insulting.
"There's a difference between quality and ego," Quinn says, pulling the blazer off the rack and handing it to me. "We aim for quality."
***
Two hours later, we've hit three more boutiques.
Quinn moves through each one like she's conducting reconnaissance—checking materials, dismissing overpriced nonsense, pulling pieces that actually suit me instead of trying to reinvent me.
She finds a leather jacket with clean lines and zero embellishments. A pair of high-waisted trousers that make me look taller. A cashmere sweater in deep green that feels like being hugged.
Nothing feels like a costume.
Nothing feels like I'm trying to audition for someone else's life.
