The boutique was called Velo.
Mila knew that because the name was etched in elegant script across the glass door—understated, expensive, the kind of place that didn't need to advertise because the right people already knew about it.
She stepped inside behind Dante, her eyes adjusting to the soft lighting. Everything was white and cream and pale gray—minimalist décor, polished marble floors, racks of clothing spaced far enough apart that each piece felt like a work of art rather than merchandise.
It was beautiful.
It was also cold.
Not temperature-wise. Just—impersonal. Like the space had been designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
Mila's gaze moved over the racks, catching glimpses of price tags discreetly tucked into seams. Four figures. Five, in some cases. She didn't let her expression change, but internally, she registered it.
This wasn't a world where she was comfortable in.
