"You've got to be shitting me," I mumble, the reflection of his car stopping before the shop's windows, ones where you cannot see inside. Above the massive double doors is a sign that makes me feel either like the Queen of England or some Billionaire Duchess. To say the least, I don't fit in where Zion plans on taking me.
Zion hops out of the car, handing the keys to a valet around my age, jogging around to my side before I can open the door. Before I even climb out I can hear the talk of the busy people around us, comments about Zion, how he looks, his wealth, his taste...and then there are the comments on me, how I don't look equal, how I shouldn't be in that car or in my dress. I feel bitter.
"Don't worry about them," Zion whispers as he pulls me close to him, walking with an arm arou
