"Would that be all, sir?"
"No. Can you show us a collection of your bags, please?" Ethan asked with a pleasant smile, his voice warm but composed.
The sales representative straightened instantly. "Right away, sir," he said with a slight bow, his tone shifting into that reverent register reserved only for Very Important Clients. "We just received a special rotation of Birkin bags—exceptionally rare pieces that typically require a long-standing relationship before eligibility is even considered."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"But... given certain circumstances," he said, eyeing Ethan discreetly, "I can make an exception."
He offered a polite smile, but behind it was something sharper—something calculating.
Ethan had taken off his hoodie now, leaving only a small black mask covering part of his face. It did little to disguise him. The man in front of the sales rep radiated wealth, and not the subtle, old-money kind. No, this was the unmistakable kind—the loud kind. The can't-hide-it-even-if-you-tried kind.
He was dressed in a Rick Owens x Moncler Lunar Puff Tech hoodie, one of the rarest from the collab, paired with Tom Ford drawstring cashmere trousers, limited Nike Air Yeezy 2 Red Octobers, and a Richard Mille RM 88 Tourbillon Smiley on his wrist—one of only 50 ever made. The watch alone was north of $1.2 million.
The sales rep didn't know who he was exactly, but he knew this much: this was someone. A young, ridiculously rich man who didn't blink twice at six-figure tags. And the girl with him? She was stunning—legs for days, cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. A supermodel, probably. Or something close enough.
The sales rep's memory flickered to just days ago—his manager had told him to offload a few of the elite Birkins quietly before corporate re-evaluated inventory. Selling one to this young man now, under the table? Would solve two problems at once.
He smiled again, this time more genuinely. Jackpot. "Give me just a moment."
He disappeared into the back.
Meanwhile, Precious stood in front of a mirror near the shelves, clutching her designer shopping bag tighter than necessary. Her cheeks were slightly flushed as she glanced down at the growing pile beside her: Chanel sneakers, a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet, a Dior choker, Saint Laurent sunglasses, and an Hermès silk scarf—and that was just what she'd kept. There had been more. Way more.
"Ethan…" she began hesitantly, voice a little shaky. "I think this is too much."
Ethan turned to her, eyes dancing. "What's too much?"
She nudged the bags with her toe. "All this. You've already bought me enough to cover my tuition and rent for the next five years."
He tilted his head, amused. "Come on, Presh. Since when did you start caring about things like that?"
"Since I saw you dropping thousands on clothes without even checking the tag," she said, trying to keep her tone light—but her voice cracked halfway.
Ethan laughed, full and easy. "You do realize the car I bought you cost way more than anything in this store, right?"
Precious stared at him. "Exactly!" she exclaimed, hands rising in helpless protest. "That's my point! It's insane."
He shrugged, still grinning, and leaned against the counter. "What can I say? I make insane amounts of money."
There was no arrogance in his voice. In fact, it was almost melancholy—the kind of statement that echoed with dissonance. Like someone describing a dream while half-asleep.
Precious's laughter faded. She looked at him for a long moment.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly.
He sighed. The kind of deep, soul-sinking sigh that drops your chest an inch.
"Honestly?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I feel... overwhelmed."
He glanced around the store. "You're seeing me now—in this world—but this isn't really me."
His voice dropped lower.
"I had to promise three different people that I wouldn't ditch my bodyguards just to come here. I had to convince my assistant that I could go shopping without getting mobbed. And even then? I had to make sure there was a decoy car."
He let out a bitter chuckle and leaned his forehead against a nearby mirror. "I needed permission just to be alone."
Precious took a tentative step forward, instinctively wanting to comfort him. But before she could reach him, Ethan stood straight and gave a light laugh, shaking his head.
"Look at me. Just ten minutes ago I was shouting about how much I love my life. Now I sound like I'm about to cry in a Hermès store."
She reached over and nudged him gently, smiling. "It's okay. You're allowed to feel overwhelmed. Even superstars have bad days."
He turned to her, smile softer now, the bravado fading.
"I missed you, sis," he said quietly. "I really missed talking to you."
She leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. "I missed you too. Even if you're annoyingly rich now."
They laughed together, the kind of laugh only siblings share—private, healing, full of unspoken history.
Then Ethan tilted his head with mock curiosity. "So… how's Isaiah, ehn?"
Precious groaned. "Ugh. Don't even remind me about that clown."
"What?!" Ethan's face twisted in exaggerated shock. "Are we already done with Mr. Tall-and-Twisty?"
"I would much rather hear about you and your mystery girl," she shot back, wagging a finger at him. "Come on, spill. Who is she?"
Ethan chuckled, rubbing his jaw sheepishly.
"Her name is Sydney."
The two of them emerged from the store still giggling, the weight of luxury purchases hanging off their arms like trophies of laughter and bonding. Ethan had his arm loosely around Precious's shoulder, the two of them chuckling about the ridiculous price of one of the scarves they'd seen, or maybe about how the sales rep had accidentally called Ethan "Mr. Easton."
"Imagine if they actually named a Birkin after you," Precious teased, smirking up at him.
"Please," Ethan snorted, "the 'Jones Birkin'? Sounds like a suitcase."
They burst into laughter again, their steps light, warm, unhurried.
But the moment shattered as two sharply dressed men in dark suits, sunglasses perched low on their faces, suddenly approached with deliberate urgency.
"Mr. Jones," one of them said, his voice clipped but respectful. "Let us help you with those."
Ethan stopped mid-step, confused for a second, his smile dimming slightly. Precious clutched her bags instinctively, startled.
"I thought I told you guys I'd be out today," Ethan said, his tone edged with irritation but held back by weariness.
The taller of the two bodyguards, a clean-shaven man with an earpiece and an intimidating calm, responded without missing a beat.
"Apologies, sir. Miss Rebecca insisted. You're urgently needed for a Vogue Homme cover shoot and a scheduled virtual meeting with new producers regarding your next album. It's been moved up."
Ethan blinked, jaw tight. He looked at Precious, who gave him a puzzled glance.
He sighed. "Oh—sorry about this. Precious, these are part of my security team. That's Marcus"—he gestured at the taller one—"and that's Devon."
"Oh, nice to meet—" she began, lifting a hand to greet them politely.
But Marcus cut her off with eerie precision.
"Miss Precious Jones. First-year at Harvard. Majoring in Government. High school valedictorian. Previously awarded the National Speech and Debate title, regional science fair finalist, and—"
"Whoa!" Precious's eyes widened. "How do you—?"
"It's my job to know, ma'am," Marcus said with a small nod.
Ethan rolled his eyes and waved it off. "Don't mind him, he gets carried away sometimes."
Precious laughed awkwardly, but her posture stiffened just a little, feeling the wall that was Ethan's world suddenly rise again—fame, surveillance, schedules, and always watching eyes.
"Let's go," Ethan said quickly. "I'll drop you off—"
But Devon interjected. "Sir, that may pose logistical difficulties. If we're to make it downtown in time, we need to begin moving immediately. However, we can call an Uber for your sister and ensure her safe return to the campus."
Ethan's brows furrowed. "No, wait—"
"It's fine," Precious cut in gently, stepping in front of him and starting to collect her bags. "Really, Ethan. I know you're busy."
He hesitated, visibly torn, the pull of duty warring with his longing to spend more time with his sister.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded with a soft smile. "Yeah. You've got a world to run, superstar. But hey, I better be on the guest list tomorrow."
Ethan grinned, eyes lighting up again. "Front row Backstage all even bring friends also. And I want you to meet Sydney."
"Ooooh," Precious teased, nudging him. "Can't wait."
They shared one more quick laugh. Ethan reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder.
"I'll call you later. And thank you, Precious. For today. I needed this more than you know."
She stood on the sidewalk, watching as the security team gently ushered Ethan toward the waiting black SUV. The door opened. He turned to wave one more time, and she waved back, eyes bright.
Then the SUV rolled away, disappearing into the swirl of city traffic, leaving Precious on the curb, her arms full of beautiful things and her heart full of quiet pride—and just a hint of sadness.
Because she saw it clearly now.
He was still her brother. But the world he lived in? It wasn't just his anymore.
It belonged to everyone else, too.
As the SUV faded from view, Precious stood still for a moment, the city humming around her, a soft breeze catching the hem of her coat.
Despite the rush, the interruptions, and the surreal brush with his high-security life, she felt something she hadn't felt in a while—peace.
All the quiet resentment she'd held—the kind that creeps in when someone you love becomes too famous, too busy, too far—had dissolved somewhere between the shoe store, the jokes, and that bittersweet goodbye. Today reminded her of who Ethan really was beneath it all.
Not the pop star. Not the icon.
Just her brother. Her best friend.
And even with the cameras, the bodyguards, the headlines… that hadn't changed.
With a small smile tugging at her lips, she turned, hugged the bags close to her chest, and began walking down the sidewalk, feeling a little lighter with each step.
Because sometimes, all it takes is one afternoon to remind you that love—real love—doesn't fade.
It just waits.