For the most photographed person on the planet, Milan Milton, heiress to the Milton hotel empire, often loathed her picture being taken, couldn’t stand being pressed in, captured at every unflattering angle. Now, swarmed by paparazzi, Milan felt on the precipice of a full-blown meltdown, though her mind was elsewhere.
You want to try and mess with me, huh? Stupid Australian bitch, I’ll bury you.
Milan attempted repeatedly to compose her tweet, before temporarily abandoning it, hampered by all the shopping she was lugging, including a distraught Sweetness wedged amongst the boxes and bags in her sixty-thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton doggie carrier. The Chihuahua was about to succumb to a cardiac arrest from all the attention indirectly lavished upon her. The heiress made no attempt to console her pet as she pressed forward, cursing herself for her last tweet.
With the hollow luxury of hindsight, Milan conceded that the final rejoinder she had fired back at the antipodean antagonist was tragically tame and insipid.
Just get inside and sort it out then. Quit dicking around.
Amethyst Dotti, the steadfastly-rising-to-superstardom Australian hip-hop artist would pay dearly for her transgressions once Milan had taken refuge from the shutter-bug maelstrom. The heiress slammed the door of Cartier, using her butt as a battering ram, she swept inside and paused with her back against the door, sealing off the outside world and the chaos localized there. She rested for a moment, collecting her breath and thoughts, scolding herself for neglecting to select a store with fewer windows.
When the atmosphere had stilled once again, she strode forward.
“Hey there.” Greeted one assistant upon noticing Milan, the mega-star.
“How’s your day going so far?” asked another.
“Can I take your bag?”
“Champagne for you?”
She ignored their fawning, offering no acknowledgement of the six assistants’ existence. Despite this, they launched themselves at her, falling over and barging past one another in their haste to fulfil the immense honor of kissing her ass. This display was a routine the heiress had long grown weary of, she had experienced such a one a dozen times today already, while perusing through Rodeo Drive’s array of high-end stores. Milan conceded that shameless lickspittle behavior was annoying yet tolerable, histrionics that didn’t really cause her lasting grief in the grand scheme of things.
It was the ubiquitous presence of the paparazzi that she found to be the most loathsome and exhausting. Today had been taxing, more so than usual without her security team to keep their revolting masses at bay.
Plus the pap-snappers had lately grown increasingly brazen toward her, more aggressive, less empathetic, handling her as a reviled fugitive, granting themselves carte blanche to torment her however they liked. Maybe they gauged that she was hurtling toward her apocalyptic nadir and wanted to place themselves at the crash site for full coverage.
Focus, focus on the important shit.
Still pretending she was alone in some sun-burnished paradise a million miles away from her fellow man, Milan surreptitiously regared Rodeo Drive. Her pursuers were occupying the storefront, having completely taken over the area with military finesse, faces and lenses pressed against the row of windows, breath fogging, spittle residue from their cries and entreaties beaded like condensation on the glass. Their numbers were steadily growing, spilling out onto the road, bringing traffic to a stand-still.
Why don’t you leeches go hound some of the Zions freaks? All day with this bullshit, I’m so fucking sick of it.
The heiress advanced further into the luxury jeweler, the hefty load of shopping she was laboring with growing unbearable, bags swinging wildly, cutting into the thin flesh of her arms.
“Can I help you with that?” Asked a young man, exposing every one of his bleached teeth, his hands extending outward.
“No.” She dismissed, not slowing, nearly taking him out.
“Okie Dokie.” His smile never faltered as he stepped aside.
Little prick maggot, germ, parasitic scum. Burn. Die. Die and burn.
Milan dumped the majority of her shopping on the closest table she encountered, only keeping with her the carrier containing Sweetness, who whined appreciatively. She peered up at Milan from her plush perch with her big, doe-like eyes. For a Chihuahua the size of a child’s toy the animal was remarkably anthropomorphic with her expressions. Mind still ridden with a barrage of toxic thoughts, Milan failed to notice her dog conveying gratitude.
Instead, the harried heiress concentrated on her cell, hell-bent on spraying digital vitriol at Amethyst Dotti, another onslaught fought on the charred Twitter battleground, one more of the innumerable many.
Going to get you good you worthless whore, disrespecting me in my own town. Think you can mess with me, you aren’t the first, do you know how many have tried and failed?
Milan scrutinized the beginnings of the tweet she had hastily composed outside with the critical, assiduous eye of a genius composer perfecting their masterpiece, one searching for a stray note, a single incongruous piece that would otherwise mar a sublime symphony. She removed words, added others, drawing from her basic knowledge of Dotti’s surprisingly dismal sales of her critically-polarized new album and from her empirical understanding of what hurts, what cuts to the core. Ultimately, the heiress opted for an understated response instead of an outright tirade.
@DaRealDotti Sorry who are you again? Thought you had hopped on your kangaroo after no1 bought your new CD.
She sent the tweet and then, with the possessed ardor of the insane and inspired, immediately added:
@DaRealDotti You probably just butt-hurt because your man been stepping out on you.
A smile spread across Milan’s face as she tweeted that. The rumors of Dotti’s 49ers linebacker fiancé, Drew Newman, and his penchant for infidelities, had been proven well-founded earlier in the week with several mistresses coming forward and conducting tell-all interviews. The ensuing fallout was still fresh, still raw. Dotti had plainly loved the Lothario and Milan felt a surge of excitement in tossing salt on such a wound. The heiress also considered throwing in a mention of Dotti appropriating black culture, but concluded that would be a terrible idea.
Best avoid that powder-keg altogether. At least no one can really accuse me of racism. That’s right girl, you dated Dopa Re$in. Well, good for you, you humanitarian.
“Looking for anything in particular?” enquired one of the assistants.
“Or just having a look?” asked another one.
Milan shook her head, groaned loudly and crossed over to vaguely inspect the contents of one counter. The heiress radiated a desire to be left alone, hoping the inept, doddering fools would take the hint.
She again looked to the last two tweets she had penned and sent, feeling a powerful, yet fleeting, flare of exultation. That high of reverie she could usually only attain chemically from copious amounts of cocaine, one that afforded her a few moments grace, of centering herself once again.
God, I should’ve brought some for a bump. Besides, what’s another possession charge going to do now anyway? God, I need it. Don’t think about it.
Milan’s day was not supposed to be blighted with such an unwelcome and unnecessary intrusion of drama. The heiress had more than enough on her plate without having to deal with some novelty-of-a-celebrity antipodean hip-hop artist taking pot shots through the craven medium of social-media. Milan had pledged to take it easy, favoring a modest afternoon of simple pursuits, its passage only marked by the expenditure of cash and the accumulation of a few dozen more shiny trinkets and assorted finery. Overall boring, but harmless and safe, above all else, safe.
Yet Dotti had chosen today as her time to strike.
Marcus ‘Chip’ May, Milan’s manager, had called Milan at the crack of dawn, notifying her of the rapper’s diatribe, as he had rightly guessed the heiress had not yet checked her Twitter feed. Milan had been near comatose from the night prior, where she had written herself off at a club opening. Ever since Piper had cut Milan out of her life, Milan no longer had a sensible person to provide ministrations and prevent mishaps.
“It’s a gorgeous piece isn’t it?” Asked one of the assistants, a young Hispanic lady.
The heiress was shocked into silence that one of their loathsome ilk would possess the gall to try and strike up a conversation with her.
“Yeah,” Milan just wanted to cut the exchange short. “I’ll take it.”
“Oh, super, excellent.”
As desired, the woman set to task and Milan took a mental picture of her small, sleek name badge.
Enjoy the employment line Melissa, you’ll be seeing it real soon.
Milan also used the distraction to saunter further away, remembering the way in which Chip had informed her of Dotti declaring war. He had adopted his most soothing, conciliatory tone, telling her the sugar-coated version of what Dotti had written, tantamount to a call to arms, instantly rousing Milan from her nightmares, the vestiges of which had stuck to her like the sickly drug-sweat glued to her brow.
The heiress had hung up on her agent and checked her Twitter account in disbelief, squinting at the text, processing what the words meant. The most egregious tweet, the one that made Milan insane with rage, had read:
@DaRealDotti @MilanMilton Man-stealing ho, is there anyone1 man you havent fucked?
The Aussie rapper had drawn first blood, the outraged heiress had dedicated every waking minute since to rectifying her tarnished status and concurrently ruining her antagonist’s. Milan had refused to resign herself to staying at home, for that would be the equivalent of running scared. Thus, she had obstinately gone ahead with her original plans, to try to preoccupy her mind from her inexorable jail-term looming on the cusp of tomorrow.
“Can I get you anything?”
Milan’s glare was sufficient to send the assistant on his way, scuttling back to the safety of behind the next counter over. The profligate spending that usually worked wonders for Milan in times of lament had now turned to ashes, a farce she now wanted done with.
She received a notification of a new tweet from the rapper.
@MilanMilton Yo talentless ho homewrecker wif no friends, enjoy jail bitch, don’t be dropping no soap. Could use 2 lose a few pounds from dat ass tho.
The heiress read the message repeatedly, eyes widening to their extremities behind her Prada shades, as her heart thumped and her body began to tremble. The tumult triggered by her anger was all-encompassing, temporarily causing her to remain perfectly still. When Milan’s legendary temper prevailed, all those court-ordered anger management classes and the scores of coping techniques they tried to impart in her amounted to naught.
Part of her, a whiny, insufferable part that she suspected to be the voice of reason, reminded her that Chip had told her not to retaliate, to be the better woman and simply ignore the puerile argument that the multi-platinum artist had tried to provoke, taking the moral high ground and let her silence reverberate, sending the loudest message.
Not that Milan had listened to such sage advice, she had charged in, guns blazing. This new feud with Dotti was not the first incident of its kind, the heiress had history with the antipodean star, as she did with much of many of the world’s most adored luminaries and celebrities.
“Would you like some champagne?” Enquired some dinosaur that had to be the manager, flesh sagged and body-dredged-from-a-river bloated, hair cropped short, smeared lipstick on her yellowing teeth. “Anything at all?”
Milan turned elsewhere, sick of the woman’s lascivious expression fouling up her vision.
The heiress tried to steel her resolve, so that she could create a tweet that would utterly annihilate Dotti. An infernal weapon of a come-back forged in the deepest furnaces of Hell and tempered with the phlegm of Lucifer himself, one that would both make the rapper a laughing stock for generations to come and in dire need of being placed on suicide watch.
As she rounded, Milan’s eyes settled on an equally unpleasant sight. A digital ad, prominently positioned in a pillar-like frame, featuring two of her most despised foes, Charlotte and Kalie Zions.
Are you fucking kidding me? How’d those two sluts land a deal like that? I’m so boycotting Cartier after this stunt. This is the final straw, no joke.
Milan was horrified that one of her favorite brands, one in which she had loyally given her patronage for years, had made the decision to approach those walking plastic surgeries in her stead. Particularly in light of how many companies had dropped her over the past few years, all the lucrative deals as their brand ambassador voided and withdrawn. The Zions’ were carrion birds, swooping in to pick her fiscal bones clean and Milan had allowed this pillaging to come to pass unchecked, too wasted to assert herself, to rid them from what was rightfully hers.
Why didn’t I bring any frigging coke? Now I have these two pieces of scum stuck in my head. I need some lines. That would fix my headache quick smart.
She was still bitter about her long-standing feud with Charlotte and Kalie, the two youngest members of the over-famous, over-exposed Zions clan. The latest debacle in the ongoing saga had ended badly for Milan, leaving her with wounds that still smarted. Knowing that she had recently been beaten had not hitherto dissuaded Milan from retaliating against Dotti, nor did the reminder of the defeat found in gazing upon her enemies’ beaming visages prompt the heiress to put down her cell and magnanimously call it quits.
@DarealAmiDotti Call me talentless like a bo$$. You are a nothing, only gotten headlines from sucking tons of dick.
@DarealAmiDotti I seen your sextape ho, you nasty, hot mess bitch. No wonder your man left your ass.
Milan felt another wild fit of euphoria as she posted the tweet, gazing at it for a few seconds, envisioning what the expression on Dotti’s face would be. As she slid with her gaze further up Dotti’s Twitter page, Milan was comforted when she realized that her amount of followers more than tripled that of the rapper, though the heiress begrudgingly conceded that Dotti’s had undoubtedly increased at an insane rate since the conflict had first commenced a few months ago.
I’m making this bitch more famous from this shit. Why does she have to keep talking trash and disrespecting me? Why can’t she just admit defeat and drop it?
In truth, prior to them declaring one another as blood-enemies for all eternity, Milan had actually enjoyed Dotti’s music and had put her feelers out to have her people met the rapper’s people for a collaboration on Milan’s next studio album, tentatively (but now poignantly) titled: ‘Demarcation’.
“Just going to leave these here.” Interrupted the self-same old, shriveled prune of a manager. The name embossed in elegant cursive on her name badge read: Bronwyn. “Just in case you get, well, you know…hungry.”
She raised a silver tray by way of explanation. A spread of figs and fresh fruit festooned it, along with a bottle of Bollinger, one flute and two bottles of Fiji water.
Milan gave a barely perceptible nod of approval. The manager bowed deeply and took her leave, receding down to the register where the others lingered in an excited assemblage. The heiress popped a strawberry in her mouth, yet even the sweet, succulent fruit could not diminish the hatred she felt against Dotti for what she had done.
Dotti was in her sights, marked for extermination, the latest tweet was merely a precursor to the hellfire Milan intended on unleashing upon the Australian upstart.
Take that you stupid skank, you are a nothing, piss off back to Australia with all the koalas and shit. When I’m done with you, you will be broken and crying. Believe you me.
Their current quarrel had stemmed from an (unrelated) ongoing one involving Milan and Claudia Samson. Samson was largely held as the most influential pop star of modern music, carrying godlike clout with her contemporaries, she also boasted a millions-strong fan-base, making her a formidable opponent indeed. The singer had taken it upon herself to publically comment on the wide-spread speculation about Milan and Piper’s friendship ending, whether doing so was in trying to divine the truth for the sake of it or lob a Molotov cocktail of an attack on Milan’s already tarnished character remained unclear.
Whatever her reasons, what Samson had commented upon was true. Piper Ferrera had been Milan’s childhood (and until recently) life-long friend, daughter to lead singer of arguably the greatest Rock band and inarguably the fourth greatest-selling band of all-time, The Crazed Commandos.
Thinking of Piper only made Milan more nervous, she found herself frantically reaching for the champagne, nearly upsetting the whole tray in the process.
Don’t drink from the bottle, don’t let these vultures outside see how badly you need the booze.
With a trembling hand, the heiress claimed the flute and poured herself a generous amount. She intended on sipping the drink daintily, but when the glass touched her lips, Milan registered she had drained it an instant later. Having thrown any pretense of civility to the wind, she refilled her flute and downed it.
Piper. God, Piper.
Shaking her head in disgust and to dissipate the troubling thoughts, Milan turned away. Her eyes again landed on the digital frame displaying Charlotte and Kalie. The dimensions were that of a life-size monument of the two, creating the eerie impression that the pair were actually standing just a foot away, beaming idiotically, mutely taunting the heiress, daring her to do something. Milan was on the verge of taking their pair up on the unspoken offer, considered flinging her cell straight at the brightly-lit monstrosity.
See if you can still give me that shit-eater grin after I smash that board into a million pieces.
“Get you another?”
The manager raised the empty champagne bottle, shaking it suggestively to and fro. Conscious of the fact that she had to drive and that the police followed her around like a bad smell, Milan still nodded her head. While waiting for more alcohol, the heiress peered out the windows offering a view of the street. The mob was proliferating and forming ranks, foiling her plans for a hasty, otherwise low-key exit.
Try as she might, Milan could not wipe Claudia Samson from her mind, the idolized singer had burrowed in, parasitic-like, gorging on her resolve. The memory of the occasion when Samson had confronted Milan and spat in her face was still fresh in her mind, still made her blood boil.
How could they make a movie about her? Which prick greenlit that?
When Claudia had committed that ill-advised act of treachery, Milan had responded in a less-than-ladylike manner, mocking her split from comedian husband, Vincent Walt. When Claudia had retaliated with matched spite instead of the sensible option of yielding, Milan took the confrontation to the next level by having a brief and highly-publicized fling with Vincent, the self-confessed sex-addict. They were captured canoodling on a balcony of the Chateau Mormont less than a week after his divorce from Samson was finalized.
Knowing that bitch she’ll probably get involved in this too. They all band together against the big, bad Milan, line up to collect your pitchfork and torches, it’s time to bag us one of them Milan beasts. She be a trophy, ah yes sur.
Dramas, countless dramas, even Milan herself had difficulty of keeping track of them all sometimes as they all fused into a single homogeny of hurt. All she could do was power along and take a few of her aggressors to Hell along with her.
“Here we go.” Bronwyn brandished the new bottle with the same pride a midwife might handing a baby to a mother.
Milan snatched the chilled-to-perfection champagne out of the manager’s hand, uncaring that her degenerate antics were making for great material for the hundreds of paparazzi snapping away outside. Still, some lingering sense of decency prohibited the heiress from guzzling the drink directly from the bottle, so she refilled the flute and down the hatch the heavenly nectar went, then another one as a chaser.
This drama would be a whole ton easier if I still had Piper in my corner.
With the onrush of alcohol pickling her brain, Milan felt emboldened enough to traipse around the store, pointing at random pieces, many of which she knew she would never ever wear. The assistants vigilantly remained at her beck and call, hovering close by, proffering the tray, vigilantly refilling her flute.
After she had drained the second bottle, Milan returned to the main counter. The alcohol had reduced her headache exponentially and boosted her spirits. She was operating on that fantastical plane of existence whereby one is aware that they are drunk, yet this awareness prevents any negative effects.
“That comes to-” The man behind the counter gave a princely sum. “Paper or plastic?”
Milan shoved her American Express Centurion into the fool’s bony chest to knock some wind out of his overzealous sails. If he was offended, he made no sign.
I guess any of the peasants that work around Beverly Hills are probably used to having celebrities treat them like garbage. It’s damn pathetic, grow a spine you toad, react like any other person with self-respect would.
The heiress turned away from the clerk to check her Twitter account again, her hand briefly stroked Sweetness’ tiny head. The Chihuahua nuzzled and licked her master’s hand, making a content whining sound as she did so, perched in the cozy confines of her carrier with only her head poking out to inspect the crazy world she inhabited.
The longer Milan studied Dotti’s tweets, the more indignant she became, both at the nerve of the woman that she had at one stage admired, as well as how impotent she felt in such a crisis.
The heiress felt utterly alone, forsaken to fend for herself against overwhelming odds, increasingly convinced that her downfall was imminent and nearing.
As if hearing her inner despair, the selfsame assistant leant forward.
“Ms Ferrera was in here yesterday.” He paused, watching Milan closely to gauge what impact his revelation had on her. His throat bobbing, lip quivering.
“Cool story.” She withdrew from him and plucked her new bags of shopping from the counter, only flitting her gaze back to the sycophant assistant once more to look at his name badge, committing it to memory, adding him to the shit-list with his equally clueless, equally contemptable colleague Melissa.
“Bye Lewis.” She turned heel.
When am I going to get a time out? I’m trying to mind my own business, how come no one else can mind theirs? Fuck you life, do your worst, if you haven’t already.
Normally, Piper would have her back with the myriad of rivalries and arguments the heiress was presently engaged in. Milan’s old bestie had always been fiercely loyal like that, unfailingly reliable in the inherently scandalous lifestyle they had found themselves born into. She never was she never afraid of using her fists, nor one to run from a fight, no matter how much her best friend had instigated said fight, regardless of the outcome.
Piper, I never wanted to do what I did to you.
Milan collected the remainder of her bags from the table she had flung them on. She spent a few moments readying herself for the frenzy that awaited her outside. She petted Sweetness, tickling the dog behind her prominent ears.
Piper, you psycho, I miss you.
Now in a helplessly reminiscent frame of mind, Milan fondly thought back to when some big, bulky Valley-girl, Sorority-Sister type had started shit at a club in Sunset Boulevard a couple of years ago. The unidentified young woman had surrounded the heiress with a few of her friends in the VIP section, trapping Milan away from her security entourage prowling around, failing spectacularly at their namesake.
Milan admitted that she had been afraid, had felt like she was finally facing the agent of her comeuppance. The young woman was larger and bristling with the toned physique only earned from lifting serious weights. Milan had mentally prepared herself for a beat down and resolved to inflict as much damage as she could. Piper had rushed in, materializing from thin air, striking the stunned aggressor in the face with a stiletto, the wicked point catching her target directly on her eye. Milan had charged forward and struck her downed opponent with a bottle and then also unleashed a barrage of blows with her own stiletto, as the young woman’s friends had scattered in every direction, rightfully fearing being on the receiving end of similar treatment.
The antagonist had required extensive plastic surgery to make herself even remotely presentable again, Milan and Piper had partied the night away and then some. Word got round, fewer people had ever tried to instigate a physical confrontation with Milan after that, and once her daddy, Winfield Milton, was sworn into the oval office they stopped altogether, mindful of being branded a terror suspect by homeland and disappearing one night.
Milan was happy to perpetuate such an absurd belief.
Don’t go thinking about him, god, as if you weren’t feeling shitty and scared enough. God, I should ask for another bottle. Why was I such a stupid idiot pussy, being too scared to bring my blow with me? I’m so sorry Piper, for everything. I just wish you were here.
Realizing that idling in place was merely allowing her dark thoughts to run rampant, Milan approached the door. The sea of flesh on the opposite side of the glass rippled with the flashes of cameras, bejeweled by the red dots of all manner of recording equipment, cheap disposable cell phones side-by-side with professionally-kitted cameras, all of them trained on her, capturing every moment.
Time to depart, time to meet the gruesome countenance of stardom head on, you got this girl, you’ve got this.
The incongruously cheerful chirp of her cell caused Milan to set her load of shopping down for the umpteenth occasion, dumping them on a counter.
@MilanMilton Ho, you wrote the book on sucking dick, bitch I’ve seen YOUR sex tape and it made me sick.
@MilanMilton @JayKingisKing what were you thinking? You best go get yourself checked at the free clinic cause this slut is nasty af. Fat fuk bitch, huge fat ho feeding of dik.
Milan slammed her phone down on the counter. The glass topping proved to be smash-resistant, though the impact produced an ugly crack that ran a half-foot span and a pronounced, jarring sound, causing all the assistants lurking in the vicinity to flinch and gasp. Sweetness squealed once but then quietened, long accustomed to her master’s regular outbursts.
Least I can be grateful for that not setting off some alarm. Um, try again sweetie. The whole world just saw your tantrum. You really are giving them a show today, you fool.
Milan breathed and examined the damage done to her cell.
A few Swarovski crystals that comprised the custom-made cover of her cell phone had loosened, with a couple dislodged completely, lost somewhere in the store, not that the she would deign to search for them. Aside from some minor superficial damage and a new scuff mark, the phone itself was fine. The device had fared far worse when Milan had used it to bludgeon one of her ex-staff members, Rita Gomez, who had also not responded well to Milan’s earnest request to have the crystals dug from her flesh returned to their rightful owner.
“No problem.” Someone assured.
“Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, no big deal.”
“No big deal at all.”
“Are you OK?”
Milan ignored them all, as the throbbing announced itself, starting to hurt. She rubbed her hand with the other and walked away from the site of her outburst before the milling clerks could try and baby her. The heiress had grown to detest anyone touching her, especially after George, even the lightest contact with someone else reminded her of memories better left buried, especially those from her various stays in rehabs.
She left her American Express on the counter and resumed pointing occasionally at items without so much as a cursory glance. The assistants removed the items from their grooves in the velvet without any further enquiry.
Dotti you disease-infested skank, I will be the cause of death on your autopsy, you best believe that.
“I’m done,” Milan decreed. “Ring it up.”
They did as bid, all of them colliding with one another in the tight space, wrapping up the items and bringing the new bag to add to that of Milan’s many. At the conclusion of the clownish process, the heiress simply took the new bag and withdrew, never even glancing at the collection of faces smiling so imploringly at her.
“Bye, bye Miss Milton.” Bronwyn called out.
The other employees voiced similar heart-felt farewell messages, sounding like the odious callings of mating birds. She paid them no heed, they were out of her life, having never really entered it in the first place.
Cartier, done, new Jimmy Choo, done, maybe browse a bit of Givenchy and Alexander McQueen, then I’m out, this day has been a nightmare.
The day’s climate had at least had proven itself conducive to such pleasant frivolities. Sunny and breezy, luring Milan into the sanguine attitude when she set out in the morning, convinced that all would be well and that she would proceed unmolested on her shopping expedition, free to exact her revenge on Dotti.
She had wanted to brighten her outlook on life, before the trauma of tomorrow came to be. After all, there was no way of beautifying the images conjured by thinking about prison.
Milan hadn’t even meant to buy that much stuff today. She was not greedy, not by her father’s standards at least. Winfield’s penchant for extravagant purchases had grown even more obscene since being sworn into incumbency, buying more islands while plunging the country into a recession.
I didn’t vote for him, that’s for sure.
Milan picked up her other plethora of bags, finding boundless strength from her rage.
Sweetness whined, lamenting at being roughly maneuvered, tucked closest to her master’s breast. Milan pet her dog by rubbing their faces together and the Chihuahua quietened down.
Once the heiress had adjusted to the heft and sway of her new load of shopping, she set off. The last thing Milan needed was to appear weak and in dire need of help in front of the paparazzi. The champagne had soured in her stomach, becoming acidic bile. She cursed herself for indulging in so much.
Forget that shit, don’t think about vomiting. At least its taken the edge off.
The heiress’ Louboutin heels clacked on the marble tiles as she exited the building, loudly heralding her arrival to the horde, triggering scores of shoving matches as they noticed her imminent approach.