My boyfriend, Dirk Harding, was putting on an art exhibition.
The venue rental, the marketing costs—they were crushing me.
To support his dream, I slept only four hours a night.
I'd even taken this closet-organizing side job behind his back.
The client, Amy Pruitt, was notorious in Greystone City's elite circles for being impossibly high-maintenance.
"Miss Fox, my fiancé despises these tacky logos."
Amy waved a manicured hand at the room full of top-tier heritage brands, her voice dripping with disdain.
"Remove every single label. And I don't want to see so much as a stray thread."
I blinked.
That quirk. I knew it too well.
Dirk hated logos too.
He said art should be pure—untainted by the symbols of money.
Over the past five years, I'd gone through more scissors than I could count.
All so he could dress "purely."
I crouched on the floor, deftly deconstructing shirts that cost six figures each.
Amy stood nearby, cooing into her phone in a voice so sweet it was almost sickening.
"Baby, are you coming home soon?"
"The organizer's working fast. You're going to be so pleased."
The door opened.
Amy rushed over.
"Dirk! You're finally back!"
I looked up instinctively.