"And?"
"And several were closed without meaningful investigation. A few were marked as resolved even though the customers never received responses."
Amara's expression hardened.
"Who authorized that?"
"That's what I'm trying to determine."
She looked toward the photograph on the kitchen shelf.
Her grandmother was smiling in it, standing outside the original Bronx store. Evelyn wore a simple blue dress and held a pair of handmade shoes wrapped in brown paper.
"Malik, I want to visit the Manhattan location today."
Silence.
Then he said, "As the owner?"
"No."
"Amara."
"I want to go in as an ordinary customer."
"Absolutely not."
She almost smiled.
"That's not a very persuasive argument."
"You're the majority owner of a luxury company with twelve stores, a corporate office, and a security team. You cannot walk into the flagship location pretending to be someone who wandered in from the sidewalk."
"Why not?"
"Because if something happens—"
"Something already happened. Our customers stopped trusting us."
"Let me arrange a management inspection."
"No."
"An independent audit?"
"After I understand what needs auditing."
"Then let me come with you."
Amara considered it.
Malik was loyal, intelligent, and excellent at reading people. Unfortunately, he was also recognizable to nearly every senior employee in the company.
If he accompanied her, the experiment would be over before it began.
"Not this time."
"You're serious."
"Completely."
She ended the call before he could build another argument.
Then she crossed the bedroom and opened her closet.
One side contained tailored jackets, silk blouses, designer dresses, and carefully selected business clothing.
The other contained a few older pieces she had kept long after becoming wealthy.
She chose a plain white T-shirt.
Then a pair of faded blue jeans.
She pulled her braids into a neat bun and put on small silver earrings.
Finally, she selected a pair of worn sneakers.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw a woman who could easily disappear into the morning crowd.
No expensive watch.
No designer handbag.
No visible signs of wealth.
She picked up an old leather tote that had accompanied her through college and placed several items inside.
A notepad.
A pen.
A copy of the flagship store's financial report.
A list of employee names.
And a photograph of her grandmother.
Amara studied the photograph for a moment.
"Let's see what they've done with our dream," she whispered.
At 7:12 a.m., she stepped outside.
She did not call her driver.
She did not request a company vehicle.
She walked to the bus stop.
As the bus carried her downtown, she watched New York awaken.
A woman in medical scrubs stood near the front holding a paper cup of coffee. A construction worker slept against the window. Two teenagers shared headphones while watching something on a phone.
Nobody paid attention to Amara.
That was exactly what she wanted.
She thought about the complaints again.
Perhaps the staff were overworked.
Perhaps the store manager had become careless.
Perhaps the company had promoted the wrong people.
Or perhaps something much worse had happened.
She would not know until she walked through the door.
At 8:03 a.m., the bus stopped a few blocks from the Manhattan flagship store.
Amara stepped onto the sidewalk.
The building stood at the corner of a busy avenue, its enormous glass windows reflecting the surrounding skyscrapers.
Above the entrance, elegant gold lettering displayed the company name.
EBONY ELEGANCE.
The store had been designed to resemble a private art gallery.
Cream marble floors.
Brass display fixtures.
Handcrafted leather furniture.
Soft lighting.
An enormous chandelier suspended above the central staircase.
Everything looked perfect.
Too perfect.
Amara paused across the street.
She watched people enter.
A businessman in a navy suit was greeted immediately by a sales associate.
A woman wearing a designer coat received a warm smile from the employee at the front desk.
Then an elderly Black woman approached the entrance carrying a canvas shopping bag.
The employee glanced at her.
Instead of opening the door, he turned away to adjust a display.
The woman pushed the door open herself.
Amara noticed.
She also noticed that nobody greeted her.
She crossed the street.
The glass doors opened with a quiet mechanical sound.
Cool air washed over her face.
The smell of polished wood, leather, and expensive perfume filled the entrance.
A young sales associate stood near the reception counter.
Her name tag read SOPHIA.
She was speaking to another employee and laughing about something on her phone.
Amara waited.
Three seconds.
Five.
Ten.
Finally, Sophia looked up.
"Yes?"
Amara offered a polite smile.
"Good morning. I'd like to look at some handbags."
Sophia glanced at her T-shirt and faded jeans.
Then she looked at the tote on her shoulder.
"Do you have an appointment?"
Amara blinked.
"An appointment?"
"For private shopping."
"I wasn't aware I needed one."
Sophia gave a small shrug.
"Well, we get very busy."
The store was almost empty.
Amara glanced toward the display floor.
There were three customers, two sales associates, and a security guard.
"I understand," she replied. "I can wait."