No security escort.
No obvious clue that she owned the business.
That was the point.
At 10:14, Diana reached the flagship.
The building still made her pause.
She had chosen the location herself twelve years earlier.
Tall glass doors opened into a two-story interior of pale marble, brass frames, mirrors, private viewing rooms, and carefully engineered lighting.
The chandelier had been made in Italy.
The white floral displays were refreshed twice each week.
Every glass case had been designed to direct light across diamonds without producing distracting glare.
Even the scent in the store had been selected after six months of testing.
White tea.
Bergamot.
A trace of cedar.
Luxury, Diana believed, was architecture plus emotion.
The store had both.
At least visually.
A security guard near the entrance opened one glass door.
"Good morning."
His name tag read MARCUS.
Black man.
Mid-forties.
Calm face.
Professional posture.
Diana nodded.
"Good morning."
"Welcome."
That was exactly the right word.
Not "Can I help you?"
Not "Do you have an appointment?"
Welcome.
Diana made a mental note.
One employee had passed the first test without knowing there was a test.
She walked deeper into the store.
A young sales associate looked up from arranging diamond earrings.
Asian American.
Mid-twenties.
Name tag: ASHLEY.
Ashley smiled naturally.
"Good morning. Please let me know if you'd like to see anything."
"I will."
Diana appreciated that too.
No immediate pressure.
No inspection.
No attempt to calculate spending capacity within three seconds.
She continued walking.
Then she saw the Aurora Collection.
Even after all these years, it still touched something inside her.
The central necklace rested against a charcoal velvet bust.
Twenty-three diamonds graduated around the curve.
The centerpiece was a rare elongated stone with extraordinary clarity.
Diana had sketched the first version of that necklace on a paper napkin during a flight from New York seven years earlier.
The full collection in the Beverly Hills store carried a retail value of more than two million dollars.
But to Diana, its emotional value was different.
Aurora represented arrival.
Not social arrival.
Creative arrival.
The moment she stopped imitating what old luxury houses had done and created something unmistakably hers.
She stood beside the glass case.
Then Patricia Wittmann appeared.
Patricia was thirty-eight.
Blonde.
Impeccably groomed.
Perfect posture.
Pearl earrings.
Cream silk blouse.
Black pencil skirt.
She had been hired two years earlier after working at two established European luxury houses.
Her interview had been impressive.
Her revenue results had been stronger.
Corporate reports described her as disciplined, polished, and commercially aggressive.
Diana had never personally met her.
Patricia approached with a smile.
"Good morning."
Diana looked toward her.
"Good morning."
"Are we shopping for something special today?"
The question itself was harmless.
The tone was not.
Diana had spent enough years in expensive rooms to recognize the difference between curiosity and classification.
Patricia was already measuring her.
The sunglasses.
The handbag.
The old bracelet visible under the sleeve.