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“Mr. Knight, please. We simply didn’t have her size⁠—”

“That isn’t why.”

I make sure that's clear.

“It’s not about inventory. It's about how you treated her when she asked to see that dress.”

The woman goes silent.

“Miss Hawthorne walked onto this floor to buy a dress, and you acted like you were auditioning for a role in Mean Girls. You acted like she didn’t belong here. And that is not fucking okay.”

Layla inhales beside me. Softly.

Shit.

That came out more personal than intended. I don't take it back. Because it's true.

I look at her.

“Ready?”

She studies me for a moment. Something in her expression I can't quite read.

Then she nods.

“I’m ready.”

We walk toward the elevator. I manage to make it all the way inside before she speaks.

“Was that necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Mitchell.”

“You asked.”

“You know what I mean.”

The doors close. I shove my hands into my pockets because there's an irrational part of me that wants to reach for her.

“I heard the way she spoke to you.”

“I can handle a bitchy saleswoman.”

“I know.”

That stops her. I turn.

“I didn't step in because I thought you couldn't handle her.”

“Then why did you?”

Because I wanted to tear her fucking head off.

Because the second I realized that tiny flash of uncertainty I'd seen yesterday had something to do with this, I wanted to erase it.

Because I don't like anyone making you feel less than what you are.