Wrong Girl to Mess With

The Cartier flagship store on Fifth Avenue gleamed like a temple to wealth, its pristine glass cases displaying diamonds that could buy small countries. I stepped through the heavy doors, my simple jeans and white blouse feeling suddenly inadequate against the backdrop of marble floors and crystal chandeliers.

Dominic's words echoed in my mind: "Pick whatever you want, Viv. Nothing's too expensive for my sister's engagement ring."

The sales floor hummed with quiet luxury, the kind of silence that only money could buy. I moved toward the engagement ring section, my sneakers squeaking softly against the polished marble. The display cases stretched before me like a constellation of fire and ice, each ring more breathtaking than the last.

Then I saw it.

An eight-carat emerald-cut diamond sat in solitary splendor, its facets catching the overhead lights and throwing rainbows across the white velvet. The stone was flawless, perfectly proportioned, with a clarity that seemed to hold the entire universe within its depths. My breath caught in my throat.

I reached toward the case, my fingertips barely grazing the glass.

"I want that one. Hand it over."

The voice cut through the store's hushed atmosphere like a blade. Sharp, entitled, dripping with the kind of authority that came from never hearing the word 'no.' I turned to see a woman approaching with the predatory grace of someone accustomed to taking whatever she wanted.

Megan Cross. Even without an introduction, I recognized her from the society pages—perfectly coiffed blonde hair that probably cost more than most people's rent, skin that had clearly never seen a day of actual work, and a Chanel suit that screamed 'daddy's money.' Her heels clicked against the marble with military precision as she swept past me like I was invisible.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice steady despite the irritation building in my chest. "I was looking at that ring first."

Megan's laugh was like breaking glass. "Oh, sweetie." Her eyes raked over my casual outfit with barely concealed disdain. "I don't think you understand how this works."

Before I could respond, she had somehow maneuvered herself between me and the display case, her manicured fingers tapping imperiously on the glass above the emerald-cut diamond.

"Bradley!" she called out, her voice carrying the expectation of immediate service. "Bradley, darling, I need this ring. Now."

A sales associate materialized as if summoned by magic—tall, impeccably dressed, with the kind of practiced smile that could assess a customer's net worth in seconds. His nameplate read 'Bradley,' and his eyes lit up when they landed on Megan.

"Ms. Cross," he said, his voice warm with recognition and dollar signs. "How wonderful to see you again. Of course, anything for you."

He moved to unlock the case with practiced efficiency, completely ignoring my presence. The injustice of it made my blood simmer.

"Actually," I interjected, stepping forward, "I was here first. I was looking at that specific ring."

Bradley's gaze finally acknowledged me, sliding from my jeans to my simple blouse