Chapter 24 New Me
Violet
The mall doesn’t close until midnight.
Camille says this like it’s a blessing. Like it’s fate. Like the universe itself decided tonight was the night I stop pretending I don’t exist outside of work.
“You should have told me,” she says as we walk in, already scanning storefronts with the focus of someone on a mission. “I have ideas. So many ideas.”
“I didn’t want to make it weird,” I say.
She snorts. “You didn’t want to ask for help.”
I don’t argue. We both know she’s right.
The mall is quieter at this hour, but not empty. Soft lighting. Polished floors. The kind of place that feels expensive just by existing. Camille leads me straight into the first store without hesitation, sleek, minimalist, racks arranged by color instead of chaos.
A woman behind the counter looks up and smiles. “Welcome in.”
Camille doesn’t slow. “We need a full wardrobe. Professional. Executive. Day to night.”
The woman’s eyes flick to me, then back to Camille. Her smile sharpens into interest. “Got it.”
I hover near the entrance, suddenly very aware of the price tags.
Camille grabs a hanger and shoves it into my hands. “Try this.”
It’s a dress. Black. Clean lines. Nothing flashy, but the fabric is heavy, expensive. I glance at the tag and nearly choke.
“Camille—”
“No,” she cuts in. “Don’t look at the numbers. Look at the clothes.”
I follow her to the fitting room on autopilot, arms already full. Dresses. Blazers. Trousers that look like they were tailored for someone who never slouches. I step into the fitting room and stare at myself in the mirror.
This doesn’t feel like me.
But then again… neither does anything else lately.
I change quickly, the fabric sliding over my skin in a way my old clothes never did. When I step out, Camille’s eyes widen.
“Oh,” she says. “There you are.”
The store associate appears instantly. “That fit is stunning.”
I glance back at the mirror. The dress hugs where it should, skims where it doesn’t. I look taller.
Sharper. Like someone who knows where she’s going.
I swallow. “It’s… a lot.”
“It’s correct,” Camille says. “There’s a difference.”
We repeat the process over and over. Dresses. Pantsuits. Pencil skirts with blouses that don’t wrinkle when you breathe. Jackets that make my shoulders look like they belong in boardrooms, not behind desks.
Compliments follow me from fitting room to mirror.
“That color is perfect on you.”
“You wear that like you own the place.”
“Are you sure you don’t work in fashion?”
Each one makes me uneasy. Like I’m getting away with something.
At the register, the associate starts folding items carefully. Camille adds more without hesitation; belts, scarves, shoes.
“Heels,” she says, holding up a pair of black stilettos. “And flats. You don’t live in pain.”
I glance at the total and feel my chest tighten. “This is too much.”
Camille leans in, voice low. “You’re not buying clothes. You’re buying armor.”
That shuts me up.
The next store is lingerie.
I try to protest. I fail.
“You cannot be running a company in bras that gave up on you in 2019,” Camille says, already pulling sets from the wall. “Trust me.”
I stand there, face warm, while a fitting specialist measures me properly. When she hands me a new bra, I don’t even recognize the feeling when I put it on—supportive, comfortable, like it was designed for my body instead of forcing my body to adapt.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
Camille grins. “Right?”
We add underwear. Stockings. Seamless things I didn’t know existed. Camille tosses in neutral colors and a few darker ones “for confidence.”
I don’t ask what she means by that.
Jewelry comes next. Simple necklaces. Stud earrings. Nothing loud. Nothing desperate.
“Power doesn’t need to shout,” Camille says, fastening a delicate chain around my neck. “It just needs to be visible.”
By the time we leave the last store, my arms ache from bags. My head spins from price tags I tried not to look at.
In the car, I finally say it. “This money… it makes me nervous.”
Camille starts the engine and glances at me. “Good.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It means you respect it,” she replies. “You’re not spending it to impress anyone. You’re spending it to survive.”
I look down at the bags in my lap. “I don’t want to change.”
Camille softens. “You’re not changing. You’re adapting. There’s a difference.”
We’re halfway out of the parking structure when Camille glances over at me, hands steady on the wheel.
“You’re not going back to that apartment,” she says.
It’s not a question.
I blink. “Camille—”
“No,” she cuts in gently but firmly. “You’re not.”
I open my mouth to argue. I always do. It’s reflex at this point.
But the words don’t come.
Because she’s right.
That apartment is thin walls and thinner locks. Rats in the stairwell. Sirens at three in the morning. Neighbors who fight like it’s a sport and cops who bang on the wrong doors just to make a point. Nights where I don’t sleep because sleep doesn’t feel safe.
And I’m exhausted.
Camille continues, softer now. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Not with everything going on. Not with… him gone.”
My throat tightens.
“I’ll take the bus,” I start weakly.
“You won’t,” she says. “Theo will drive us to work. Or I will. Or Rowan will send a car if he has to.” A beat. “You deserve better than survival mode.”
I stare out the window as the city passes, familiar and unforgiving.
“It would be nice,” I admit quietly, “to sleep. Just… sleep.”
Camille smiles, relieved. “Good. Because you’re moving in.”
She doesn’t wait for confirmation.
When we pull into her driveway, she’s already unloading bags, hauling them inside like this was decided weeks ago. I follow, numb but grateful, as she leads me straight to the spare bedroom.
“You can change it however you want,” she says, flicking on the light. “Paint, rearrange, whatever. I don’t care.”
She pauses in the doorway. “If you absolutely want to pay rent, I’ll accept four hundred. That’ll cover power and water. Otherwise, shut up.”
I laugh softly despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” she says. “Get some sleep.”