“All right.” She clicks another image and enlarges it. “This little twat, who was just a no-name artist on a corner a month ago, just went into collab with one of my distributors. Her simple-minded black-and-white artwork all over denim! It’s disgraceful, and cutting into my own print denim line.”

I rub my forehead. High fashion gives me a nausea-inducing headache. I like nice things. I don’t care why they’re nice. “What is it that you want, Rochelle?”

She glances over her shoulder at her team, then tics her chin toward her glass office. Once she has us sealed inside, she says, “Katy Dee built her career on Instagram. An Instamodel—” she scoffs “—so tacky. I want her account taken down. Her thousands of followers gone, and for good measure…oh, I don’t know. Maybe her line’s latest shipment gets lost upon delivery. Like say, in Indonesia?”

I smile. Rochelle would be good at my job. I rarely have to investigate to come up with a good scheme. “Oh, is that all you want?”

“The usual fee? Or are your prices inflating like everyone else’s in this blood-sucking world?”

I hold up a hand. “The usual is fine. But maybe it’s time for a hormone check?”

She sighs heavily, blowing her fringe of thin bangs away from her forehead. “Seriously. That bastard took all the good parts of me. My youth. My patience. And what am I left with? Menopause and a dried-up vagina.”

And fifteen million dollars in the settlement and alimony.

“I’ll have an update for you tomorrow,” I say, as I head toward the office door. “Try not to murder anyone, and get some hormones, for fuck’s sake.”

Her laugh is loud and throaty.

“Oh,” I say, paused in the doorway. “I will need one other thing this time.”

One of her pencil-thin eyebrows arches.

“Who does your hair?” I ask.

She digs out her phone and punches in a contact. “Lyric, I need a favor. I’m sending her to you in ten.” She hangs up.

“Damn. Must be nice to be the queen.”

She smiles as she scrawls an address on a Post-It and hands it to me. “So what’s the occasion? Are you finally tired of looking like an emo nut from the nineties, or is it a request from Mommy Dearest?”

Besides Lomax, Rochelle is the only other client who knows my real name. It was impossible to keep it from her, seeing as she runs in the same exclusive socialite circle as my mother and her friends.

Rochelle is baiting me. She knows very well Vanessa has no say over my life, more so my hair. I took that power away when I denied any claim to family money.

“Vanessa has nothing to do with this.” I give her a knowing glare. “I need a new look for a special client. He likes blondes.”