" 𝐖𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐱𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬. "
Y/N is the girl that everyone wants to be and or want to be with. Having the w...
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"THAT—THAT IS VERY EXPENSIVE."
"Shasa, honey," I waved off the concern with a flick of my wrist. My fingers skimmed through the delicate materials, eyes darting around for anything that suits my model—the wonderful Shasa Guten. "I have money and a trust fund. This is retail therapy— other words, therapy for rich people."
Shasa trailed behind me like a lost puppy, arms wrapped around—not to a very obvious extent—her upper torso and tucked into her sleeves.
"I am afraid to touch anything in here." she hissed quietly to my ear.
Shasa poked my arm; then gestured to the price tag of the blouse I had in my arms by the satin hanger. I lifted it up and examined it. She remained wide-eyed.
"When I was a kid, I could literally smell the wealth whenever I passed a boutique like this." Shasa held both hands in front of her, denying my offer for her to hold the top. "Y/N, you must be either blind or really do not care about the expenses of these things. Two thousand euros for a shirt—that will take me at least a year to pay off if I were to continue blading at the same time!"
Shasa, Shasa, just enjoy the shopping experience. I rehung the blouse on the rack I found it on with a sigh. I haven't been here in a LONG while and I sure do miss it.
It is absolutely bustling in Brighton Threads Boutique. The off-white wallpaper are lined wall to wall with framed full-body mirrors—outlined in gold—as well as matching white shelves with golden supports hang from the ceiling holding a bountiful array of the latest fine accessories and bags. The pink walls hold multitude of select clothing, all hung on padded ivory satin hangers.
"I'll pay it off," I hushed with a motion of my hand. She continued to wear the look of someone that witnessed murder first-hand. "We will need to give you a makeover and send you back home with a whole new wardrobe."
"I—" Shasa stared down at her black top with a square neckline, then tugged at her cotton magenta zip-up hoodie over her shoulder with a frown. I glanced over at her puzzled expression. "What's wrong with my clothes? These are very comfy when you sit in a plane for 13 hours and suffer the insufferable jet-lag after."
"It's—" I curl in my lips. How do I say this? "It's just a tad...well, it'd look better without the hoodie."
"Kris gave me this hoodie, thank you very much," Shasa muttered.
