Page 57 of Tempting Kat
I spin on my heel and march toward the most expensive boutique in the shopping center, the one with a single mannequin in the window wearing what looks like a napkin that probably costs more than a car payment.
“Miss Katarina—” Henry starts, but I'm already storming through the door.
“I need everything,” I announce to the startled sales associate, a rail-thin woman with a severe bob. “The most expensive shit you have. All of it.”
The woman blinks, then recovers with practiced smoothness. “Of course. What kind of pieces were you looking for?”
“Surprise me,” I say, slapping Conrad's black card on the counter. “Just make it expensive.”
Thirty minutes later, I'm walking out with four massive shopping bags filled with ridiculous designer clothes I'll never wear. Thousands of dollars’ worth of pure spite purchases.
“Next,” I say to Henry, who's struggling to keep up with me. “Where's the fanciest lingerie store in this place?”
Henry's ears turn red. “I believe that would be Luxe, on the third floor.”
“Perfect.”
At Luxe, I buy every ridiculous, overpriced scrap of lace they try to sell me. Teddies with more cutouts than fabric. Bras that look like they were designed by a horny architect. Crotchless panties that make Henry stare determinedly at his shoes when the saleswoman holds them up.
“This one says 'fuck me' without saying a word,” the saleswoman purrs, holding up a black lace number.
“I'll take three,” I say, not even looking at the price tag. “In different colors.”
By the time we leave Luxe, I've dropped another four thousand dollars, and Henry's face has settled into a permanent flush.
“Shoes next,” I announce, marching toward a store with a single stiletto on a pedestal in the window.
I buy six pairs of shoes I can barely walk in and a purse that costs more than my first car.
By the time we stagger back to the car, Henry's arms are loaded with bags, and my anger has crystallized. I'm notjust pissed—I'm fucking furious that Conrad thinks he can manipulate me like this, threatening someone's livelihood to get me to bend to his will.
“One more stop, Henry,” I say as he arranges the bags in the trunk.
“Yes, Miss Katarina?” He looks exhausted but dutiful.
“The women's shelter on Parkway. The one with the donation center.”
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and something passes between us—understanding, maybe even approval. He nods once and pulls away from the curb.
Twenty minutes later, we're parked outside a modest building with a sign reading “New Beginnings Women's Center.” I grab armfuls of bags.
“Need some help?” Henry asks, already reaching for more bags.
“Fuck yes,” I grunt, nearly toppling under the weight of designer bullshit.
Inside, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes greets us at the reception desk. Her name tag reads “Gloria.”
“Hi there,” I say, dropping the bags at her feet. “I'd like to donate all of this. It's new, tags still on. Designer stuff.”
Gloria's eyes widen as she peeks into one of the bags. “Oh my goodness. This is…this is incredibly generous.”
I shrug. “The women here deserve nice things too.”
We make two more trips to the car, unloading every ridiculous spite purchase I made. Watching Gloria's face light up as she sees what's in each bag—the dresses, the shoes, even the lingerie—feels better than any shopping spree ever could.
“Many of our women are starting over with nothing,” Gloria explains, her voice thick with emotion. “Having something beautiful, something that makes them feel special...it means more than you know.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. “I get it. Starting over sucks.”
