The Allure of Julian Lefray (The Allure #1)(42)

“May I?” she asked, pointing to the top of the plastic.

“Yes,” I replied as she reached to pull open a drawer.

She pulled out a small pair of scissors and grabbed the end of the garment bag. My stomach sank as I watched her slice through the plastic, from top to bottom, practically cutting my heart right along with it.

“Yes. I knew this one would be lovely,” she said, reaching for the gold gown as she let her scissors clatter back onto the counter.

“It’s Monique Lhuillier,” I said, pointing to the tag for proof.

She hummed and pulled the dress off the stack to inspect it. “Yes. It’s beautiful, but not in the best condition.”

The top of the bodice had intricate beading that I’d tried my best to conserve over the years. It hadn’t been in the best condition when I’d first purchased it, but I’d never had the time to mend it.

She hummed as she turned the gown over in her hands, feeling the fabric between her fingers and carefully inspecting the hemline. I watched her, praying she saw the beauty in the gown as much as I did. When she was done, she placed the gown back onto the pile with a gentle hand and glanced up at me.

“Why don’t you look around while I inspect the rest of these, and then I’ll let you know what I can offer you for them,” she said with a smile.

I swallowed slowly and nodded, even though I’d have rather stayed right where I was, watching her handle my most prized possessions.

“Are those flats vintage Chanel?” the woman asked from behind the counter.

I glanced down at my shoes and smiled.

“Yes.”

“Any chance you’ll part with those?”

My back stiffened. My Chanel flats would never be sold. Even if I ended up on the streets, I’d be the only homeless person in New York wearing vintage Chanel footwear. Because I have priorities.

I shook my head. “Not today.”

Just the idea of having to part with them made my stomach twist into a ball of anxiety. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and took a step back, confirming to myself that I wasn’t allowed to touch a single thing in the shop while I waited for her to finish. Chances were, if I broke something, I’d have to hawk an organ to cover the cost.

I wandered through the store while she inspected the gowns, keeping track of the setting sun through the window on the shop’s door. I knew Julian would be picking up his date for the fundraiser soon. Priscilla Kinkaid. I’d googled her the night before, just to rub salt in the wound. She was as pretty and as well connected as I remembered. Most of the photos that popped up in the image search were of her sitting in the front row of various fashion shows, smiling next to the who’s who of fashion. She’d apparently vacationed last June with Karl Lagerfeld for Christ’s sake.

She and Julian would make a beautiful couple. Their children would be J. Crew models. Gag me.

I didn’t want to think of Julian smiling at another woman. I didn’t want to think of the way he filled out a tuxedo, making it impossible for his beauty to go unnoticed. He was a perfect gentleman, funny and charming. Priscilla would have to be a complete simpleton not to appreciate everything he had to offer.

“Sweetie, I’m ready for you,” the woman called from the front counter.

I took a breath and braced myself for the results. Hopefully I’d be able to pay my rent for a few months with the dress money. By selling them, I’d have enough time to find another job and get the loan officers off my back.

She’d hung each of the gowns on a garment rack behind the counter. Gold, black, red, blue, and white. They were all beautiful in their own way, and it was almost more cruel to see them hanging like that, right in front of me but already long gone.

“I would be willing to give you $500 for the Monique Lhuillier and $200 for the rest,” she said, pointing to the other four gowns.

My gaze froze on the colorful gowns as my mind tried to process her words. I’d been expecting so much more. That amount would hardly cover one month’s rent. My brows tugged together as my gaze shifted back and forth between her and the gowns.

“Do you mean $200 for each?”

She frowned. “No. $200 for them all.” She motioned to the last four dresses. “They’re not items my clients would pay top dollar for. They’re seasons old, but not quite vintage. Most of them need some major repair work before they’d even be ready for resale.”

I wanted to throw up. I could feel my anxiety rearing its ugly head, pumping through my body and tainting what little hope I had left.

Fuck this day. Fuck my old dresses. Fuck my massive pile of student loans.

I’d expected to be paid ten times that amount. Hell, maybe even twenty. She might as well have offered me nothing at all for the way I felt. I stood across the counter from her, trying to decide what to do, knowing full well that my mind was already made up. I had to sell them. I didn’t have a choice.

I felt like a cheap hooker as I pushed through the shop’s door and made my way out onto the bustling street. Sure, I had $700 in cash stuffed into my wallet, but I felt used and hollow, no better than I had on the way over. Selling those dresses was supposed to solve my problems, but instead, it’d just piled another one right on top, right in the center of my heart.

I was critically close to throwing in my cards. I could feel the pressure rising in my chest, filling every part of me until I thought I’d break right there, in the middle of the sidewalk.