“What?”
“Regional reports.”
“Those reports said customer experience was stable.”
“I know.”
“Then who changed the reports?”
Malik didn't answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
Amara looked at him.
“You suspect someone?”
“I suspect people were afraid to report Victoria directly.”
“Why?”
“Because she has friends in regional management.”
Amara leaned back.
“So the numbers were softened.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the photograph of her grandmother.
“That's worse than bad sales.”
Malik nodded.
Then his eyes fell on the shoe box sitting on the table.
“You brought those?”
Amara opened it.
The shoes were the same pair from the confrontation.
She had asked the customer, through the receipt information obtained later from the payment record, to leave the shoes with customer service.
The sole had separated.
But that wasn't the strangest part.
Amara picked up one shoe.
She examined the inner lining.
Then the stitching.
Her expression changed.
“Malik.”
“What?”
“This isn't our manufacturing.”
“What?”
“Look at this.”
She pointed to the stitching.
“Ebony Elegance uses a double-lock seam here. Whoever made this used a single seam.”
Malik leaned closer.
“Counterfeit?”
“Possibly.”
Amara checked the production code.
It didn't match.
She looked at the receipt.
Then at the date.
“Someone returned these before.”
“How do you know?”
“The damage.”
She turned the shoe over.
“There are marks from another repair.”
Malik frowned.
“So the couple may have bought counterfeit shoes?”
“Or someone sold counterfeit shoes through our store.”
The room became quiet.
Malik slowly looked up.
“You think Victoria is involved?”
“I think we need evidence.”
That afternoon, Amara returned to the flagship.
But this time, she didn't go inside.
She stood across the street.
She watched.
A young employee named Jordan left through the side entrance.
Amara followed at a distance.
When Jordan reached a coffee shop, Amara approached.
“Excuse me.”
Jordan looked nervous.
“Yes?”
“I was in the store this morning.”
“I remember.”
“You seemed uncomfortable.”
Jordan looked away.
“I need my job.”
“I didn't ask you to quit.”
The young man swallowed.
“Who are you?”
Amara smiled.
“Someone who wants to know what happens inside that store.”
Jordan studied her.
Then lowered his voice.
“You really don't know?”
“Know what?”
“Victoria decides who gets treated well.”
“How?”
“If you look wealthy, she personally handles you.”
“And if you don't?”
“You wait.”
“Even if the store isn't busy?”
“Especially then.”
Amara's stomach tightened.
“What about returns?”
Jordan hesitated.
“She tells us to reject them whenever possible.”
“Even legitimate ones?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You don't have to.”
Jordan looked frightened.
“There are things I shouldn't be telling you.”
“I won't use your name.”
He stared at her.
“Why do you care?”
Amara looked at him.
“Because I built the company.”
Jordan's eyes widened.
“What?”
“I am Amara Jackson.”
For several seconds, he simply stared.
“You're…”
“Yes.”
“The owner?”
“Yes.”
Jordan looked as though the ground had shifted beneath him.
“Why were you dressed like that?”
“Because I wanted the truth.”
He shook his head.
“You got it.”
Amara thanked him.
Before he left, she asked one final question.
“The couple this morning. Were they telling the truth?”
Jordan hesitated.
“I saw those shoes before.”
“Where?”
“In the back.”
“Why?”
“Victoria had a box of returns she told us not to process.”
Amara's eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is it?”
Jordan looked toward the street.
“Storage room.”
Then he left.
That evening, Amara called Malik.
“I want the inventory logs.”
“For what?”
“The last six months.”
“You think something's missing?”
“I think something's being hidden.”
By midnight, the truth began to emerge.
Twenty-seven pairs of shoes were listed as returned.
Only nineteen were actually processed.
Eight had disappeared.
Their combined retail value was more than twenty thousand dollars.
Amara stared at the spreadsheet.
Then she found something else.
A pattern.
Every missing item had been associated with a customer complaint.
She whispered,
“Oh, Victoria.”
The next morning, Amara returned to the store.
This time, she wore her usual tailored black suit.
Her hair was perfectly styled.
No sneakers.
No faded jeans.
No attempt to disappear.
The employees froze when she entered.
Victoria was behind the counter.
She looked up.
Her face drained of color.
“Ms. Jackson.”
Amara smiled.
“Good morning, Victoria.”
Victoria stood immediately.
“I—I wasn't expecting you.”
“I know.”
Amara walked toward her.
“I came to see my store.”
Victoria swallowed.
“Of course.”
Amara glanced around.
“Do you still think I'm nobody?”
Nobody answered.
The employees looked at the floor.
Victoria opened her mouth.
But no words came.
Amara placed the report on the counter.
“We're going to talk.”
Victoria looked at the document.
“What is this?”
“The truth.”
And for the first time since Amara had entered the store, Victoria looked afraid.
The Door Opens
The meeting lasted three hours.
By the end of it, Victoria's explanations had collapsed under the weight of documented evidence.
The missing inventory.
The complaints.
The manipulated reports.
The employees who had been pressured into rejecting legitimate returns.
None of it could be dismissed as misunderstanding.
Victoria insisted she had been protecting the brand.
“I was maintaining standards.”
Amara remained calm.
“Standards don't require humiliation.”
“I was protecting the luxury image.”
“Luxury isn't an excuse to disrespect people.”
“You don't understand what it takes to manage a flagship.”
Amara looked at her.
“I built it.”
Victoria fell silent.
The disciplinary process began immediately.
But Amara knew firing one person would not solve everything.
The problem had grown beyond Victoria.
There were employees who had copied her behavior.