The boutique smelled like leather and exclusivity. Polished marble floors reflected rows of high-end heels, each pair perched like art in a gallery. A quiet hum of classical music played beneath soft lighting.
Isla rolled through the entrance in her sleek, black wheelchair — denim jacket, ponytail, and eyes focused on one thing: a stunning pair of red designer heels displayed near the back. They were elegant. Bold. Expensive.
She wheeled closer, her fingers brushing the edge of the velvet display.
Behind the counter, a sales associate glanced up — mid-30s, perfectly groomed, name tag reading Evelyn. Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
“Hi,” Isla said with a warm smile. “Do you have these in a size 6?”
Evelyn hesitated. “Those are quite… exclusive,” she said, voice light but laced with judgment. “They’re $1,200.”
Isla tilted her head. “I saw the tag.”
There was a pause — just long enough to sting.
“You might want to look at some of our more… practical flats,” Evelyn added, gesturing toward a corner display.
Isla’s smile didn’t fade. But her eyes sharpened.
“And what exactly makes them more ‘practical’ for me?”
Evelyn opened her mouth, then closed it.
“I’ll take the heels,” Isla said, reaching into her designer crossbody bag and pulling out a black Amex card. “Size 6. I’ll wait.”
Evelyn blinked. “Of course, ma’am.”
As she disappeared into the stockroom, another employee nearby gave Isla an approving nod. Isla simply turned her chair toward the mirror, lifted one foot slightly off the footrest, and admired the shoes from a new angle.
She didn’t need to walk to know how to stand tall.
