Their father, Gregory Bennett, stood near the door looking uncomfortable in his dark suit while he rubbed his temples as though the grief of the funeral had drained whatever patience he once possessed for family arguments.
I glanced toward the photograph of my mother framed beside the register and remembered her voice from years earlier saying softly, “Clothes tell stories if you learn how to listen closely.”
“Victoria, you really should consider selling this place,” Aubrey continued while inspecting her manicured nails with careless boredom, and she added, “It might help you pay rent for a few months.”
I looked at her calmly before answering with quiet confidence, “I am not worried about rent, Aubrey, and I promise you this boutique will remain exactly where it belongs.”
None of them understood that beneath this modest storefront existed the original design studio where every collection of my global fashion empire quietly began before traveling to runway shows across continents.
Our mother had died believing that one day her children might finally learn humility, although she never lived long enough to see how spectacularly that lesson would arrive.