By the time our hair was rinsed and wrapped into fluffy white towels, both of us were flushed from champagne and wicked laughter. We strutted out of the salon together, sunglasses on, towel turbans perched like crowns. We looked like absolute menaces—and it felt glorious.
"Right," Aria announced, sliding back into the passenger seat of the convertible as Thomas held the door. "Phase one complete. Now, to battle."
"Battle?" I asked, settling into the creamy leather.
"Couture, darling. We wage war on the racks."
The drive to the city’s most exclusive shopping district was exactly as Aria had predicted: a spectacle. Heads turned as the vintage beauty purred down the street, two women with towel turbans and oversized sunglasses laughing inside. It was ridiculous, ostentatious, and utterly exhilarating. Behind us, like a loyal, heavily-armored guard dog, the matte black G-Wagon kept a discreet but unmissable distance.
Our first stop was a boutique with a name so revered it was whispered rather than spoken. The moment we stepped out of the car, a doorman who looked like a retired secret agent nodded, and the doors swung open into a serene, minimalist heaven of silks and cashmeres.
"Miss Smith," a woman with a severe brunette bob and a warm smile greeted us. "We have the private suite prepared. Champagne or sparkling water?"
"Water," Aria answered for both of us without breaking stride. "And tell Antoine to bring us the new season’s collection. All of it. We’re in a mood for bold statements."
The suite was larger than I thought, with plush velvet couches, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and its own dedicated changing area. As we given the water, racks of clothing were wheeled in. I reached out to touch the sleeve of a silk blouse, my fingers hesitating for a moment when I saw the delicate price tag hanging from the cuff. The number had four zeroes. I instinctively pulled my hand back.
Aria caught the movement. She leaned over and plucked the tag, dangling it in front of me before letting it drop to the floor. "Rule number one, Isabella: price tags are for civilians. Today, they do not exist. You see something you love, you get it."
I swallowed, the number on that little piece of cardboard still burning behind my eyes. But the look on Aria’s face was one of absolute, unshakeable certainty. It was the same look she’d had before our final exams, the one that said, Trust me. I’ve got this. So, for the second time today, I decided to let go.
"Fine," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "No price tags."
"That’s my girl." She clapped her hands together, a general marshalling her troops. "Antoine! Less looking, more bringing!"
What followed was a whirlwind of texture and color. We tore through racks like a storm, glasses constantly refilled by hovering shop girls who seemed terrified but obedient.
Then Aria gasped, spinning toward a display at the center of the boutique. She held up the up and down set—deep burgundy gold-buttoned waistcoat, flared out skirt that whispered both playful and powerful. A matching pair of glossy knee-high boots sat beneath it like an afterthought, along with a sleek handbag and gold hoops that gleamed under the light.
"This," she breathed, shoving it into my hands. "This is it. This is us."
I blinked. "Us?"
"Us," she confirmed, snatching a second one in her size. "Matching outfits, matching boots, matching energy. We’re going to walk into that sip-and-paint like it’s a big city Fashion Week."
"What do you mean sip-and-paint? Are you saying we are going to another location?" I asked, completely bewildered. We were already in the middle of what felt like a full-scale assault on Adrien’s bank account, and now there was another stop?
Aria paused, the burgundy set clutched to her chest, looking at me with an expression of mock horror. "Isabella, darling, you truly are a corporate drone! Of course, we’re going to another location! The entire point of a girls’ day out is a multi-venue extravaganza! And a sip-and-paint, my dear, is where you get to unleash your inner Picasso, except Picasso had to be sober. We, on the other hand, get to be delightfully tipsy while attempting to create ’art’." She air-quoted the last word with a flourish. "It’s the perfect blend of classy leisure and chaotic self-expression."
I stared at her, then at the elegant, expensive up and down set in my hands. "We’re going to a sip-and-paint... in these?"
Aria’s grin widened. "Precisely!" She swept away towards the changing rooms, a general leading her troops to yet another conquest. "Now, try it on! We’re on a schedule of fabulousness!"
Reluctantly, but with a growing sense of adventurous abandon, I followed her. I tried it on, and—even I had to admit—it was perfect. The color hugged me just right, the skirt gave me a confidence I didn’t know I had. The knee-high boots, surprisingly comfortable, added a daring edge. When I emerged, Aria was already spinning in front of a mirror in her identical outfit, a vision of burgundy power. And when she saw me, she squealed like she’d won the lottery.
"You look absolutely divine, Isabella! Like a dark, dangerous rose ready to bloom and conquer!" Aria declared, rushing over to give me an enthusiastic hug that threatened to crinkle the pristine fabric. "A goddesses. Untouchable. Unstoppable. And soon, probably covered in acrylic paint."
"You look like a diva yourself."
"Nuh uh. We. Are. A. Diva."
I laughed, a genuinely uninhibited sound that felt foreign and exhilarating. "Somehow, I still don’t think this outfit is designed for painting."
"Details, darling, details!" Aria waved a dismissive hand. "That’s what dry cleaners are for. Besides, a little splash of cerulean will only add to the haute couture mystique. Now, let’s get these babies wrapped up and head off. Our canvases await!"
Antoine, who had been hovering solicitously, barely flinched at Aria’s declaration. He seemed to have seen it all. Within minutes, our new wardrobes were meticulously bagged, ready to be whisked away by Thomas and two men I just realized were with us the whole time. We, however, remained in our magnificent burgundy ensembles, ready for the next phase of our extravagant escapade.
Stepping out of the boutique, the afternoon sun felt different on my skin. The world seemed to shimmer with possibility. The doorman offered a deferential bow as we swept past, and Thomas, ever the picture of discreet efficiency, held open the convertible’s door. As we settled in, Aria adjusted her sunglasses, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Next stop, Isabella: Canvas and Cabernet!"