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My teeth find my lower lip again.

Fuck.

I hate that she sees it.

That tiny reaction.

That tiny piece of the sixteen-year-old girl I used to be who would've wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

I release my lip. Lift my chin.

“Then show me what you have in an eighteen or twenty.”

Her eyebrows rise. Not much. Enough.

“I see.”

Something hot and humiliating crawls up my neck.

No. Fuck that.

I refuse to be embarrassed by a number sewn into the back of a dress.

“I need an evening gown. Emerald green, if possible, for a black tie event tonight.”

She gives me another assessing look.

Then sighs. Actually fucking sighs.

“Well, our selection in those sizes is extremely limited. You may have better luck downstairs.”

I stare at her.

“Downstairs?”

“Yes. I would check the clearance racks for someone like you.”

The words land exactly the way she intends it to.

Not here.

Not with the couture.

Not among the women this floor was designed for.

You belong downstairs.

My fingers curl around the strap of my bag.

I can leave. I should leave. There are thousands of stores in Manhattan. I can find a dress somewhere else.

I don't need to stand here and let some miserable stranger make me feel like my body is a problem requiring relocation to another floor.

“Sorry, we can’t help you,” she adds, without sounding sorry at all.

“Are you really?” I ask, eyebrows and temper both raised.

“Are you sure you're in the right place?”