A twenty-dollar bill slid beneath a clothing rack, another landed beside the register,

The VIP client turned out to be a notoriously difficult socialite named Mrs. Harrington—an older woman who lived in the Gold Coast and treated every retail worker within a three-mile radius as her personal servant.

Mrs. Harrington was draped in heavy mink and flashing diamond rings, snapping her fingers as she inspected a rack of designer evening gowns.

“You there—the new one,” Mrs. Harrington barked, pointing a manicured finger directly at Vanessa. “Bring me that crimson velvet gown in a size four. And make it snappy. I have a charity gala at the Drake Hotel tonight, and I don't have all day.”

Vanessa felt a familiar surge of heat rise in her chest—the old, knee-jerk irritation of someone used to giving orders, not taking them. For a fraction of a second, she wanted to snap back, to tell Mrs. Harrington exactly where to go.

Then she caught Sophie’s eye from across the counter. Sophie gave her a tiny, imperceptible nod. *Stay calm. Handle it.*

Vanessa took a slow, deep breath, smoothing down her plain black trousers. She forced a polite, professional smile to her face—not a fake, condescending smirk, but genuine customer service poise.

“Right away, Mrs. Harrington,” Vanessa said smoothly, her voice calm and steady.

She retrieved the crimson velvet gown with care, unzipped the garment bag gently, and brought it over to the private fitting room. She even held the door open and fluffed the plush ottoman inside.

Mrs. Harrington inspected the dress with a critical eye, grunting in mild approval. “At least someone around here has half a brain. Help me into it, girl. My shoulder's been acting up.”

Vanessa didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and carefully helped the older woman slip into the heavy velvet gown, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders and fastening the intricate zipper in the back without a single complaint.

When Mrs. Harrington stepped out of the fitting room and admired herself in the three-way mirror, she actually looked pleased.

“Not bad,” Mrs. Harrington sniffed, handing Vanessa her platinum credit card. “Ring it up. And wrap it in double tissue paper. I don't want a single crease.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Vanessa said politely, processing the transaction with swift, efficient movements.

When Mrs. Harrington finally left the boutique, trailing expensive perfume and complaints about Chicago traffic, Vanessa let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned against the counter.

Sophie walked over, a look of genuine respect on her face.

“You handled her like a seasoned professional,” Sophie said. “Ten days ago, you would have thrown the dress at her.”

Vanessa smiled, wiping down the glass counter with a cloth. “Ten days ago, I didn't know what hard work looked like. Now... I realize how much patience you guys have to deal with people like that.”

“People are stressed, tired, or just plain miserable,” Sophie said philosophically. “Our job isn't just selling clothes. It's absorbing their bad days and keeping the peace.”