Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 124: When Power Walks In

ISABELLA’S POV

The sharp click of heels cut through the thick tension like a scalpel.

A tall woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a bun appeared at the edge of the dressing rooms, flanked by two boutique staff members in immaculate black. Her blazer was pressed to military precision, her heels sharper than her eyes—which was saying something.

"I believe that’s enough," she said, voice calm but firm.

Everyone turned.

The woman’s gaze swept over the wreckage—fallen mannequins, a sideways clothing rack, Victoria half-draped in shimmering chiffon and still clutching her wrist like it hurt. Then it landed on me and Aria. Steady. Cool.

"Miss Miller, Miss Smith" she said, inclining her head slightly, "I am Marlene, the store manager of this Lenora’s location."

I blinked. She knew our names?

My spine straightened instinctively. "Yes?"

She stepped closer. "On behalf of Lenora’s, I’d like to extend our sincerest apologies for what just occurred. The behavior you’ve been subjected to is utterly unacceptable. And entirely beneath the standards of this establishment."

My mouth opened—but nothing came out.

Aria, too, was frozen for once, her chest still heaving from the aftermath, hair wild and cheeks flushed.

Clara scoffed beside us, tossing her head like this was all some tragic misunderstanding. "Oh, come on," she said with a tight laugh. "Why all this fuss over two... common customers? Seems like an overreaction."

Marlene turned.

Slowly.

Like a queen shifting to address a gnat.

"Miss Langford, I am instructing you to issue a formal apology—personally—to Miss Miller and Miss Smith. Their presence here is valued, and their experience must reflect that."

A flicker of surprise crossed Clara’s face, replaced quickly by a tight smile.

"Apologize?" she repeated, voice sharp. "For what? Interrupting your... grand social hour?"

"Your membership privileges," Marlene added smoothly, "have been revoked effective immediately."

Clara’s smirk faltered. "Excuse me?"

Marlene didn’t blink. "You are no longer welcome in any of our locations, nor will our staff assist you going forward. Your behavior has been flagged and documented. A formal letter will be delivered to your residences."

Victoria, finally upright, sputtered, "You can’t be serious."

Marlene turned to her. "Miss Castell. That extends to you as well."

"But I’ve shopped here for years!"

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and Victoria’s jaw clenched beside her.

Aria made a low, delighted noise beside me. "Oh, this is delicious."

Clara’s face had gone stark white. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," Marlene replied smoothly. "And that is precisely why this is being handled with such clarity."

The room grew heavier with the weight of unspoken truths.

Clara’s posture stiffened, but no one dared argue.

Marlene gave a curt nod.

"Now, let’s resolve this professionally. Apologies first."

Clara took a breath, lips pressed thin as she turned to us.

"Very well. I apologize for any offense we caused today."

Her words lacked sincerity, but they were words nonetheless.

Marlene’s eyes flicked to me once more, her expression softening just slightly.

"If there’s anything we can do to assist you further—shopping support, concierge services, transport—we are at your disposal."

She handed me a card. Thick, ivory, embossed with gold.

"Lenora’s stands by our values. And we protect our people."

I took it slowly.

"Thank you," I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

Marlene inclined her head again. "You’re welcome, Miss Miller."

Then she turned, heels clicking like punctuation marks against the tile, and walked away—leaving Clara and Victoria standing there like yesterday’s news no one wanted to touch.

Aria exhaled in a long, slow breath. "Holy hell."

"Yeah."

"That was... something."

I nodded, still holding the thick Lenora’s card like it might combust in my hand. Across from us, Clara and Victoria stood frozen, as if someone had paused their scene and forgotten to hit play.

"Are you okayy?"

"Of course I am," I replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as I helped smooth her sleeve. "How about you?"

She gave a small nod, catching her breath.

Then Aria straightened, eyes gleaming like she’d just been handed the keys to the kingdom.

"Well," she said brightly, clapping her hands once, "that was fun. Now—where were we?"

I blinked. "Shopping?"

"Obviously. Trauma builds character, but good fashion builds legacies." She looped her arm through mine and started steering us back toward the racks. "Come on, before my righteous high wears off."

I glanced over my shoulder once as we passed Clara and Victoria—who, to their credit, looked like they’d swallowed bleach—and felt something unsettlingly close to satisfaction curl in my chest.

The boutique staff scattered around us like well-trained stagehands, restoring racks and righting mannequins as though nothing had happened. I caught one of them watching us with a tentative smile—probably wondering if we were secret shoppers or minor royalty.

Aria, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display near the back.

"Ooooh, Bella," she called, holding up something that could only be described as haute couture villainess meets gothic seductress. "Tell me this doesn’t scream ’this woman will ruin your life and make you thank her for it.’"

It did. It absolutely did.

"That’s a power move," I said, eyeing the smooth cutouts and absurdly dramatic collar.

"Perfect," she declared, tossing it over her arm. "And maybe... this?" She yanked out a sequined cape. A literal cape.

"Aria."

"Bella."

"I thought we were scaring him off, not sending him into a horror movie."

"Exactly," she said proudly. "He’ll take one look at me and either propose on the spot or fake his own death. Honestly, I’m fine with either."

I snorted. "You’re unhinged."

"And you love it." She spun, then struck a pose with the cape. "Now quick, help me find something with feathers. I want to look like a sexy phoenix rising from the ashes of all my failed dates."

We spent the next twenty minutes spiraling into outfit chaos. Aria pulled fringe. Leather. Chains. I found a skirt that looked like it had been inspired by medieval weaponry and dared her to try it on. She accepted, of course, with the solemnity of a knight preparing for battle.

Eventually, she disappeared into the dressing room, and I sank into the chaise outside it, scrolling my phone.

A text from Adrien lit up my screen.

Peacock

Everything alright? Haven’t heard from you.

I smiled a little. My last reply had been before the incident. I typed back quickly.

Isabella

Survived an unexpected gladiator match in the boutique. All good now. No casualties. Maybe some egos.

He replied instantly.

Peacock

Should I be concerned?

I hesitated, then smirked and typed: freewёbnoνel.com

Isabella

Only if you’re secretly funding high society mean girls. But I know your taste is better than that.

He sent back a single emoji: [a smirking emoji]

I shook my head, cheeks warm.

****

Aria was already rifling through the racks with theatrical flair, tossing fabric and accessories over her shoulder like she was assembling an outfit for a royal séance.

"Okay, picture this," she said, eyes gleaming. "I’m the shaman—mysterious and untouchable. You’re my loyal follower. We show up at this date like we’re about to summon spirits or something."

I raised an eyebrow. "That’s... definitely a vibe. But what if he calls the cops instead of running?"

Aria smirked. "Then we dial up the creepy. Or I go ’sickly patient’ and you’re the dedicated nurse. You follow me everywhere, fussing, offering ’medicine’ that’s actually just green tea."

I shook my head but couldn’t help laughing. "That actually sounds more subtle."

"Or, hear me out," Aria said, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper, "ghost and apparition. I make some incantation to curse him, and you sneak in, making spooky noises and floating behind him. He bolts before dessert."

I could already picture the guy’s face. Priceless.

"We should pick outfits now," she added, dragging me toward the changing rooms. "We need all the drama and flair."

"Drama and flair are one thing," I muttered, eyeing a nearby mannequin draped in beaded silk. "Summoning demons during a date is another."

"That’s the spirit," Aria chirped. "Literally. We’re doing ghost and priestess."

"I thought you were joking."

"I never joke about a costume plan, you know that" she said, deadly serious. "Now come on, we need layers. Texture. Something that says ’this dinner may end in ritual sacrifice.’"

Within seconds, she was rifling through velvet capes, sheer scarves, and high-collared gowns like she was styling a séance-themed editorial spread. I was handed a pile of gauzy fabrics—misty grays, pale blues, shimmering whites—like I was the star of an avant-garde horror ballet.

"I’m the mystic shaman. The powerful seductress of forgotten realms," Aria said, holding up a floor-length black cloak with embroidered symbols down the back. "And you’re my loyal phantom. The tormented soul who follows me wherever I go."

"You mean I’m the backup dancer in your unhinged fashion ritual."

"Exactly," she beamed. "You float. You glide. You haunt. Bonus points if you can do that creepy neck tilt."

"This is a real date," I reminded her as I pulled a sheer silver veil from the pile. "A real human man is going to witness this in person."

"And he’s going to know what fear tastes like," Aria declared. "Now try this. No, wait—this one." She shoved a long, draping hooded shawl into my arms. "You’ll look like death’s personal assistant."

"You’re lucky I love you."

"I know," she said sweetly. "And I promise to avenge your death in a very elaborate blood ritual if this goes south."

We changed in the dressing rooms and emerged moments later looking like we’d stepped straight off the set of a gothic drama directed by someone with a flair for the absurd. Aria’s outfit was a masterpiece: high-necked black silk with sleeves that billowed like smoke, a silver chain belt hung with tiny trinkets, and a veil that covered half her face in shadows. Mine was layers of pale fabric that flowed when I walked, topped with a gauzy cape that trailed like fog and shimmered under the boutique lighting. Aria had even smudged gray shadow around my eyes "for dramatic hollowness."

We looked insane.

Aria turned toward one of the mirrored walls, inspecting herself with the gravity of a general before battle. "Do I look like I’ve communed with ancient spirits and might hex someone at dessert?"

"Absolutely."

"And you—" she gestured at me with pride—"you’re like a heartbroken wraith who died in the 1800s but stayed behind because the tea was still piping hot."

I laughed, lifting the veil from my face. "So we’re really doing this?"

She grinned. "I kidnapped you for this, remember? No backing out now. We’re going full performance art. Worst case, he runs. Best case—he runs faster."

"Thanks for playing ghost, Bella." She added.

I smirked. "Always down to haunt for a good cause."

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