She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the lipstick stain she put there herself and called me a liar in front of the whole store.
Her name was Eleanor Vance, and she was our department store’s professional nightmare.
Every week, it was the same game. She’d return a designer handbag or a pair of shoes, claiming they were “defective” when they were perfect.
I had to just smile and scan the refund, because my boss said to keep her happy. Her husband was important, and my job kept a roof over my family’s head.
But this time was different. She didn’t just want her money back for the thousand-dollar dress she ruined.
She wanted to enjoy watching me squirm.
She put on a great show humiliating me for a full refund, but the performance I had planned for her own charity gala would cost her so much more.
The Polished Rot: Same Time, Same Station
The chime above the glass doors of Auden’s department store was supposed to sound elegant. At 10:05 AM on a Tuesday, it sounded like a guillotine dropping. I looked up from the sales report I was trying to decipher, my stomach tightening into a familiar knot. Right on schedule.
Eleanor Vance glided across the polished marble floor of the Handbags & Accessories department. She was a vision in cream-colored cashmere, her blonde hair pulled back in a chignon so severe it looked like it hurt. She didn’t walk; she sailed, a luxury yacht in a sea of us common fishing boats.
“Anna, dear,” she said, her voice a low, melodious hum that always set my teeth on edge. She placed a pristine leather satchel on my counter. The bag was from our exclusive line, retailing for nine hundred and fifty dollars. “This simply will not do. The color is all wrong in natural light. It’s far too… jaundiced.”
I picked up the bag. It was the color of rich caramel, exactly as advertised. There wasn’t a scuff, a mark, or a single sign of use on it. Just like the wallet last week, and the silk scarf the week before that. “I see,” I said, my own voice carefully neutral. I was the department manager. My job was to smooth these things over, to absorb the friction.
“I’ll need a full refund to my card, of course,” she continued, already pulling out her platinum Amex. She didn’t look at me, her attention fixed on a display of new arrivals. It was never a conversation. It was a series of royal decrees.
My district manager, a perpetually stressed man named Peterson, had sent out a memo last month. Our Q3 return rates are unsustainable, especially in high-value departments. Managers will be held accountable. The memo might as well have had Eleanor Vance’s photo on it. She was single-handedly cratering my department’s profitability. Her returns last quarter alone had cost us over twelve thousand dollars in written-off inventory. It was my job on the line.
A Thousand Tiny Cuts
I processed the refund. The receipt spooled out of the machine, a long, flimsy testament to my failure. Eleanor signed the slip with a flourish, then tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the glass counter.
“And the new Fendi collection,” she mused, more to herself than to me. “You were supposed to have it in by the first of the month. It’s the tenth.”
“There was a shipping delay from Milan,” I explained, the words tasting like ash. “We’re expecting it any day now.”
She gave a delicate, dismissive sniff. “That’s what your little assistant said last week. One expects a certain level of competence from a store like Auden’s. Or at least, one used to.”
The insult, one of a thousand tiny cuts she administered, was meant to land. And it did. My assistant, Chloe, was a twenty-year-old college student who worked harder than anyone I knew. I saw Chloe’s shoulders slump from across the floor where she was pretending to organize a shelf.
“I’ll personally call you the moment it arrives, Mrs. Vance,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like it was cracking my face.
She just nodded, her gaze already distant, and sailed away toward the escalators, leaving the refunded handbag sitting on my counter like a corpse. Chloe came over, her face pinched. “I’m so sorry, Anna. I told her what you told me to say.”
“You did everything right,” I reassured her, my voice tight. “Some people just run on a different kind of fuel.”
“Yeah,” Chloe muttered, picking up the bag. “Kerosene, I think.”
The Lipstick on the Collar
The day got worse. Peterson called for a “check-in,” which was corporate-speak for a twenty-minute lecture about my department’s numbers. He didn’t say her name, but we both knew who he meant. The Queen of Returns.
Later that afternoon, my husband, Mark, texted. Leo’s history project is due tomorrow and he hasn’t started. Says he needs a tri-fold board. Can you grab one? I pictured my son, Leo, a lanky fifteen-year-old, blissfully scrolling through TikTok while his grades slipped. Another fire to put out.
The pressure felt physical, like a band tightening around my chest. My salary paid for the mortgage, for Leo’s braces, for the illusion of our comfortable suburban life. My job wasn’t just a job; it was the entire scaffold holding us up.
It was almost closing time when the real bomb detonated. Eleanor Vance reappeared, this time holding a garment bag. My heart sank. She didn’t even shop in ready-to-wear; she was just here to return something from another department, knowing I was the manager on duty. She wanted an audience.
“This is completely unacceptable,” she announced, her voice carrying across the now-quiet store. She unzipped the bag and pulled out a stunning, floor-length ballgown. It was a thousand-dollar dress, midnight blue silk that shimmered under the lights. She pointed to a spot on the inner collar. “A lipstick stain. It was sold to me this way. Damaged.”
I leaned in. There, on the delicate silk, was a faint, waxy smear of crimson. I knew, with a certainty that made me feel sick, that the stain was fresh. It smelled faintly of her perfume. She was claiming it was there when she bought it. She was lying.
“I can assure you, Mrs. Vance, all our garments are inspected—”
“Are you calling me a liar?” she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. A few remaining customers turned to look. My face burned hot. “I host the Heart of the City Gala. I buy a new gown every year. The idea that I would be so clumsy…” She laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Process the return. And I’ll take a gift card for my trouble.”
A Name to the Cruelty
This was it. A line in the sand. I could refuse. I could call her out. And I would be fired before she even reached the parking garage. Peterson’s voice echoed in my head. Keep our high-value clients happy, Anna. Whatever it takes.
I looked at her cold, expectant face. Then I thought of my mortgage, of Leo’s future. The fight drained out of me, replaced by a cold, heavy resignation.
“Of course, Mrs. Vance,” I said, the words automated. “My apologies.”
I refunded the full amount. I processed a one-hundred-dollar gift card. I did it all while she stared me down, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips. She had won. She always won.
I drove home in a daze of fury and shame. I walked into the house to find Mark and Leo arguing over video games. The sight of the un-purchased tri-fold board on the kitchen counter sent a fresh wave of failure through me.
Later that night, unable to sleep, I was scrolling mindlessly on my laptop. An article from a local lifestyle blog popped up on my newsfeed. Eleanor Vance: The Philanthropic Heart of Our City.
There she was. Smiling warmly at the camera, holding a novelty check for a children’s hospital. The article praised her tireless charity work, her grace, her generosity. It quoted her. “Giving back isn’t just a duty,” she said. “It’s a way of life. It’s about integrity.”
I stared at the screen, at the sanctimonious lie of it all. The rage that had been simmering all day boiled over. It wasn’t just about the money anymore. It wasn’t just about my job. It was about the colossal, suffocating injustice of it. The public saint and the private monster.
My fingers trembled as I clicked on a link in the article. It led to the official page for her annual charity event, the one she’d mentioned. The Heart of the City Gala. Her face was plastered everywhere, a beacon of fake benevolence.
I leaned close to the screen, my own reflection a ghostly, furious mask in the glass. “Integrity,” I whispered to the empty room. “You have no idea what that word even means.”
The Digital Trail: The Ghost in the Machine
Sleep was a lost cause. The image of Eleanor’s face, beatific and fraudulent, was burned onto the back of my eyelids. At two in the morning, fueled by a potent mix of coffee and fury, I sat back down at the kitchen table. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.
I started with the jaundiced-looking handbag. I remembered the brand: a niche Italian designer named Bellucci. A simple Google search led me to their official site. Then I tried something else. I typed “Bellucci caramel satchel” into the search bar of LuxeSwap, a popular high-end resale marketplace.
I scrolled through dozens of listings. And then I saw it.
The lighting was different, a little warmer, but it was the exact same bag. The listing photos were crisp and professional, shot against a backdrop of what looked like a distinctive, grey-veined marble countertop. The description read: Brand New, Never Used. Exquisite Bellucci satchel in rare caramel leather. Pristine condition. The seller’s username was CityChic88. The asking price was eight hundred dollars.
My heart started beating a fast, heavy rhythm. It could be a coincidence. It could be. But it felt too specific. I clicked on the seller’s profile. CityChic88 had been a member for three years, with a 100% positive feedback score and over four hundred items sold. “Item was perfect, exactly as described!” one review read. “Lightning fast shipping, A+++ seller!” said another.
This wasn’t just a casual closet clean-out. This was a business.
Item 34-B is a Perfect Match
The next day at work, I felt like a spy in my own life. I greeted customers, coached Chloe, and answered emails, all while a secret, obsessive part of my brain was whirring away. During my lunch break, instead of eating, I went to the back office.
“Just need to cross-reference some old inventory logs for the quarterly report,” I told the operations manager, forcing a casual smile. He shrugged and went back to his podcast.
I pulled up the return history for Eleanor Vance. It was all there, a digital monument to her grift. Page after page of refunds. I scribbled down the SKU numbers and product descriptions of a dozen recent returns on a sticky note, my hand shaking slightly. A pair of Jimmy Choo heels she’d claimed were “painfully scuffed.” A Burberry trench coat with a “faulty zipper.”
That night, I turned our quiet suburban kitchen into a war room. With Leo at a friend’s house and Mark asleep upstairs, I sat with my laptop, the sticky note, and a fresh pot of coffee. One by one, I searched the SKUs on LuxeSwap, filtering for the seller CityChic88.
Bingo. The “painfully scuffed” Jimmy Choos were listed as Mint Condition, Worn Once for Indoor Photo Shoot. The “faulty zipper” on the Burberry trench had been miraculously fixed, now described as Classic and Flawless. Each listing featured the same professional photos, the same grey-veined marble backdrop.
Then I searched for the ballgown. The one she’d humiliated me with. And there it was. Professionally dry-cleaned, the lipstick stain vanished without a trace. The description was a masterpiece of audacity: Stunning Auden’s Exclusive Gown. Perfect for any formal event. A true showstopper. The price was seven hundred dollars.
I leaned back in my chair, the scope of it washing over me. This wasn’t just a rich woman abusing a return policy to get a free wardrobe. She was using Auden’s as her own personal, zero-cost supplier for a highly profitable, fraudulent online boutique. She would “borrow” an item, wear it, maybe damage it slightly, then return it for a full refund by bullying an employee. Then she’d have it professionally restored and sell it for nearly full price.
A Business of Lies
I started a spreadsheet. It felt absurd, something Mark would do, but I needed to see it clearly. I went back through months of Eleanor’s return history, matching items to the listings on CityChic88’s page. The math was sickening.
The twelve thousand dollars in returns from last quarter was just the cost to Auden’s. Based on the resale prices, I estimated she had pocketed at least ten thousand dollars in pure, untaxed profit from those items alone. I scrolled back further. Over the last year, I calculated she had likely cleared over sixty thousand dollars. Sixty grand, earned by lying, cheating, and making people like me and Chloe feel worthless.
The anger was so cold and sharp it felt like a shard of ice in my chest. This woman, who the world saw as a pillar of charity, was running a criminal enterprise built on humiliation.
But I needed absolute proof. A username and a similar-looking bag weren’t enough. I needed to connect Eleanor Vance, the person, to CityChic88, the anonymous seller.
I went back to the lifestyle blog article. I scanned the photos of her at various charity events. Then I found it. A section titled “At Home with Eleanor Vance,” featuring an interview conducted in her house. There were several photos of her, poised and elegant in her study, her living room.
And then, a picture of her in her kitchen, laughing as she held up a cookbook. And there, in the background, clear as day, was the kitchen island. It was a massive slab of grey-veined marble. The exact same pattern, the same unique, dark fissure running through the corner, as the one in every single one of CityChic88’s product photos.
I stared, my breath caught in my throat. It was her. It was absolutely, unequivocally her.
The Price of Admission
I had her. The proof was all there, saved in a folder on my desktop that I’d cryptically named “Leo’s History Project.”
My first instinct was to go straight to Peterson. I could lay it all out for him, the whole sordid mess. But then I hesitated. Peterson was a company man. He was weak. His first priority would be to avoid a scandal, especially one involving the wife of a major investor. He’d probably thank me for the information, bury it, and continue to let Eleanor do whatever she wanted, just more discreetly. He might even find a reason to fire me for “unauthorized use of company data” to ensure my silence.
No. Going through official channels was a dead end. This required something else. Something louder.
I went back to the webpage for the Heart of the City Gala. The event was in two weeks. It was her stage, the place where she performed her role as the city’s angel. What better place to pull back the curtain?
My heart hammered against my ribs at the thought. Me? Walk into a room full of the city’s one-percenters and call out their queen? It was insane. It was terrifying.
Then I saw the ticket price. A single seat at a table was one thousand dollars.
I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound in the quiet house. A thousand dollars. I pulled up my online banking app. My checking account held three hundred and forty-two dollars and sixteen cents. The irony was suffocating. I had the weapon that could destroy her, but I couldn’t even afford to get into the room where she was hiding.
I closed the laptop and stared at the dark screen. The image of the gala ticket price glowed in my mind. It felt like a final, mocking insult. But as the initial wave of defeat receded, something else took its place. A cold, hard resolve.
If she thought a thousand-dollar door was enough to protect her, she was wrong. I just had to find another way in.
An Investment in Justice: My Grandmother’s Gold
The idea came to me in the shower the next morning, a place where I usually tried to let the day’s anxieties wash away. But this idea stuck, unsettling and necessary. There was one thing I had of value, one thing that was mine alone.
In the back of my jewelry box, tucked under a tangle of costume necklaces, was a small, velvet pouch. Inside was my grandmother’s locket. It was heavy, 14-karat gold, intricately carved with swirling vines. My grandfather had given it to her on their wedding day. She gave it to me right before she passed away. It was my only real connection to her.
Selling it felt like a betrayal. A desecration. But when I pictured Eleanor’s smug face, the feeling shifted. This wasn’t about wanting a new dress or a fancy dinner. This was an investment. An investment in justice.
I drove to a part of town I usually avoided, a street lined with cash-for-gold places and bail bondsmen. The pawn shop I chose smelled of stale cigar smoke and regret. A man with tired eyes and a magnifying glass looped around his neck weighed the locket in his palm.
“It’s old,” he grunted. “Good weight, though.” He squinted at it, then at me. “Three hundred.”
“It’s worth at least a thousand in gold alone,” I countered, my voice stronger than I expected. I had done my research.
He sighed, a long, practiced sound of weary negotiation. We went back and forth. I didn’t back down. I thought of the lipstick-stained gown. I thought of Chloe’s crestfallen face. I thought of the sixty thousand dollars. Finally, we settled on eight hundred. He counted out the crisp hundred-dollar bills, and I pushed the locket, my last piece of my grandmother, across the counter. I didn’t let myself feel the loss. Not yet.
The Dossier
The thousand-dollar gala ticket was actually a “donation.” I made it online that afternoon, using a prepaid debit card I’d bought with the pawn shop cash. The confirmation email arrived instantly. Thank you for your generous contribution to the Heart of the City Fund! I felt a grim smile touch my lips. Generous, indeed.
With the remaining money, I bought the plainest black dress I could find at a discount store and a cheap clutch purse. The rest of the week, I moved with a singular, feverish purpose. My life became a series of clandestine operations. At work, I used the brief moments I was alone in the office to print copies of Eleanor’s return receipts. I smuggled them out of the store in my handbag, my heart pounding every time I walked past the security guard at the door.
At home, my laptop was my weapon. I took screenshots of everything. Every single damning listing from CityChic88. The side-by-side comparisons of the “damaged” items and their “pristine” resale counterparts. The glowing seller reviews. The picture of Eleanor in her kitchen with the marble island, circled in red. I printed it all in color at a 24-hour copy shop, the pages warm and smelling of toner.
I assembled it all into a crisp, black folder. It was a dossier of her deceit, methodical and irrefutable. I felt like an investigative journalist, a prosecutor building a case. The fear I’d felt was slowly being baked away by the heat of my own methodical anger.
A Lonely War
“You’re quiet tonight,” Mark said, two days before the gala. We were sitting on the couch, the TV droning on about some political scandal that seemed trivial compared to the one I was about to ignite.
“Just tired,” I said. “Long week.”
“About the vacation fund,” he started, his voice gentle. “I know things are tight, but I was thinking maybe we could still do a weekend trip. Drive up to the lake. Leo would love it.”
I looked at our vacation fund jar on the mantle, where we put spare cash. It was supposed to be for a trip to the Grand Canyon next summer. The eight hundred dollars I’d spent on the ticket should have gone in there. The guilt was a sharp, physical pang. I was lying to him, to my family, and risking everything, all for a battle he didn’t even know I was fighting.
I wanted to tell him. I wanted to open the folder and show him the whole ugly story. But I knew what he would say. Anna, let it go. It’s not our fight. Think about your job. Think about us. He was practical. He was safe. And he would try to stop me.
“The lake sounds nice,” I said, my voice hollow. “Let’s talk about it next week.”
I couldn’t risk telling anyone. Not Mark, not Chloe, not a soul. If I failed, I would fail alone. The responsibility was heavy, a physical weight on my shoulders. It was a lonely, terrifying war, and I was the entire army.
The Eve of Battle
The night of the gala, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom. The black dress was simple, almost severe. It was the anti-Eleanor. It was the uniform of a woman who was there for business, not for pleasure.
I tucked the black folder into my clutch. It barely fit. I had rehearsed it in my head a hundred times. I would wait until she was on stage, accepting her award. The room would be quiet, everyone’s attention focused on her. I wouldn’t scream or cause a scene. I would be calm, clear, and factual. I would simply present the evidence.
My hands were shaking. A wave of nausea rolled through me. What was I doing? I was a department store manager, a wife, a mother. I was about to walk into a hornets’ nest with a stick. They would chew me up and spit me out. Security would throw me out. I’d be fired on Monday. Eleanor Vance would probably sue me for slander.
I closed my eyes, and I saw her face in the store. The condescending smile. The dismissive wave of her hand. Are you calling me a liar?
My eyes snapped open. The fear was still there, but the rage was stronger. It was a fire that burned away the doubt. I thought about the locket. The sacrifice was already made. There was no turning back now.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Mark. Leo aced his history presentation! The tri-fold board was a hit. See? You always come through. Love you.
The message was a gut punch. You always come through. Tonight, I wasn’t coming through for them. I was doing something purely for myself, for a principle they didn’t understand. The cost of this was real, and it was a price my family might have to pay.
I took a deep breath, slipped my phone into the clutch next to the folder, and walked out of the bedroom. I felt strangely calm, the way you do when you’ve already accepted the worst possible outcome. The battle was tomorrow. No, the battle was now.
The Queen Is Dead: A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
The ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel was another world. It was a shimmering, golden cavern of sound and light. Chandeliers dripped crystals like frozen waterfalls. The air, thick with the scent of a thousand dollars’ worth of lilies and a hundred different perfumes, vibrated with the confident chatter of the city’s elite.
I felt like a ghost. My simple black dress and a glass of sparkling water were my camouflage. I moved along the edges of the room, an invisible woman in a sea of sequins and tuxedos. No one looked at me twice. I was just part of the background scenery.
I found her near the main stage, the center of her own gravitational field. She was magnificent in a gown of emerald green silk, a diamond necklace glittering at her throat. Men in expensive suits bent to kiss her cheek. Women with surgically tightened faces laughed at her jokes. She was holding a champagne flute, her head tilted back, basking in the adoration. She was the sun, and everyone else was just a planet in her orbit.
Watching her, I felt no fear. The rage had burned down to a single, cold point of purpose. I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, waiting for the shepherd to turn her back.
A Special Presentation
The dinner service was a blur of clinking silverware and murmuring voices. I ate nothing. I just watched. I tracked the waiters, the security guards, the tech crew running the sound and the massive projection screens on either side of the stage.
Finally, the moment came. The lights dimmed. A portly man in a tuxedo, the event’s MC, took the stage. He launched into a syrupy tribute to Eleanor’s unparalleled generosity, her tireless spirit, her commitment to the less fortunate. The hypocrisy was so thick I could taste it.
“And now,” he boomed, “to present her with the 2023 Heart of the City Award, please join me in welcoming the woman of the hour, the queen of our hearts, Eleanor Vance!”
The room erupted in applause. Eleanor glided onto the stage, accepting the heavy glass award. She approached the podium, the spotlight making her diamonds blaze. She gave a flawless speech, her voice trembling with expertly feigned humility. She spoke of integrity, of community, of the moral duty of the privileged to lift up the fallen.
As the applause swelled again, I made my move.
I intercepted a young waiter clearing a table nearby. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice low and firm. “They need the Q&A microphone up front.” I pointed vaguely toward the stage. Before the flustered kid could object, I plucked the wireless microphone from his tray.
I walked toward the stage, not running, just moving with purpose. I saw a security guard’s eyes flicker toward me, but he must have assumed I was part of the program. I stopped just short of the steps. Eleanor was still waving, smiling her brilliant, false smile.
“Excuse me,” I said into the microphone. My voice, amplified, cut through the applause like a siren. The room fell silent. Every head turned toward me. “Mrs. Vance, before you go, I have a brief presentation on your other, incredibly successful business venture.”
Eleanor’s smile froze.
From my clutch, I pulled out a small, universal remote I’d bought online, pre-programmed to the projector’s frequency. I aimed and pressed the button.
The huge screens on either side of the stage, which had been showing Eleanor’s smiling face, flickered. They were replaced by a crisp, high-definition screenshot of the LuxeSwap homepage for the seller CityChic88.
The Price of Everything
A collective gasp went through the room. Eleanor stared at the screen, her face slack with shock.
“For those of you who don’t recognize it,” I said, my voice steady and clear, “this is an online boutique run by a seller named CityChic88. A seller with a perfect five-star rating.”
I clicked the remote again. The next image appeared: a side-by-side of the “damaged” ballgown from my store and the “pristine” one for sale online.
“CityChic88 has a brilliant business model,” I continued, my voice echoing in the dead silence. “She acquires her inventory for free from high-end department stores like Auden’s, where I work. Or, where I worked.” A few nervous laughs rippled through the crowd. “She returns items, claiming they’re damaged, often humiliating working-class employees in the process, and gets a full refund.”
Click. The screen showed the “scuffed” Jimmy Choos.
Click. The “faulty” Burberry trench.
“Then, she has them professionally restored and sells them online for almost full price. It’s fraud. It’s theft. And over the last year, it’s earned her an estimated sixty thousand dollars, tax-free.”
I saved the final image for last. I clicked the remote one more time. The screen filled with the photo from the magazine. Eleanor in her kitchen, smiling, with the unmistakable grey-veined marble island in the background. Beside it, a collage of a dozen different LuxeSwap listings, all with the same marble background. The proof. The nail in the coffin.
A low murmur swept the room. Phones were out, dozens of them, all recording. I saw a man I recognized as a reporter from the city paper furiously typing on his phone.
Two security guards were finally moving toward me, their faces grim. I didn’t resist. I let the microphone drop from my hand. It hit the carpet with a soft thud. I had said everything I needed to say.
As they grabbed my arms, my eyes met Eleanor’s. She stood frozen on the stage, a statue of emerald and diamonds. Her mask of philanthropic grace was gone, shattered. All that was left was the raw, ugly truth, exposed for the whole world to see. Her world.
A Different Kind of Silence
They escorted me out through a back corridor, the sounds of the chaotic ballroom fading behind me. They took my name and a photo, told me I was banned from the hotel for life, and then unceremoniously deposited me onto the street. The cool night air felt like a release.
I took a taxi home. The adrenaline started to wear off, leaving a strange, hollow feeling in its place. I had done it. I had won. But it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt… quiet.
Mark was waiting up for me. The look on his face told me he already knew. The video was already online. “Anna… what did you do?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. There was no anger in it, just a deep, weary sadness. The silence between us was heavier than any argument we’d ever had.
The next day, I was officially fired via a cold, brief email. The story was everywhere. The news reports were brutal. They used words like “fraud,” “scandal,” and “hypocrisy.” Eleanor and her husband went into seclusion.
A week later, I was working a trial shift at a small, greasy-spoon diner downtown. The pay was half what I used to make. As I wiped down a sticky counter, I saw a newspaper left on a stool. The headline read: Vance Estate Under Federal Investigation for Tax Fraud. A small, grim smile touched my lips. Justice.
My pocket buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. I opened it.
There was a photo. A crystal-clear, long-lens shot of my son, Leo, walking home from school, his headphones on, completely oblivious. He was just a few feet from our front door.
Below the photo, there was a single line of text.
You think a thousand-dollar dress is expensive? You have no idea what things really cost
About the Author
