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Or at least… that's what I tell myself.

Annette turns back to Helena. "I'll take this one, this one—" She grabs two Louis Vuitton bags, one classic monogram toteand one cream Neverfull. "—and oh! That Fendi baguette. The brown one with the gold clasp."

Helena beams. "Excellent choices."

Three purses. Just like that. I look down at the fake red Gucci again. One hundred and twenty dollars. Two copays. Pete's saved allowance.

The red looks like sin. Like blood. Like something that doesn't belong in my beige kitchen.

"Okay," I hear myself say.

My fingers are already reaching into my purse.

Annette squeals softly. "Yes, Audra!"

I pull out my wallet. For one brief second, I consider texting Pete. But then I imagine his reply.If it makes you happy, babe, get it. You deserve something nice once in a while.

That's the problem. He would say yes. So I don't ask. I hand Helena the money. The leather is smooth under my fingertips as she places the purse—and the wallet—into a dust bag. Something electric sparks through me. Not guilt. Not yet. Something else. A taste of something I haven't felt in a long, long time—someone else might call it recklessness—I used to call it spontaneity. Doing something that isn't sensible. Following my own desires for once.

Helena leans closer as she zips it closed. "You wear it well."

A light giggle escapes me. This is so not me. At least not the me I've been during the last six years. The old me would have done a striptease to get a hundred and twenty dollars to buy the purse and laughed while doing it. Back when attention felt like power. Before I learned how quickly it could turn into something more dangerous than death. Pete likes me different. Quieter. More put together. The kind of woman who doesn't need to prove anything to anyone. And somewhere along the way… I became her.

Reverently, I brush the leather inside the dustbag.

"And you get this," Helena coos, pulling out an honest-to-God Gucci box that will get a place of honor in my tiny closet. I stare at it like it's the crown jewels.

"Oh my God," Annette breathes beside me. "You even do the boxes?"

Helena winks. "Ladies, presentation is everything."

Another ripple of laughter moves through the room. Wine glasses clink. Someone near the kitchen pops open another bottle of champagne. For a moment, everything feels warm and conspiratorial, like we're all part of some glamorous secret.

Then—

A thunderous crash. The front door explodes inward.

"FEDERAL AGENTS! NOBODY MOVE!"

For half a second, my brain refuses to process what I'm seeing. Black armor. Helmets. Weapons. Flashlights slicing through the room like lightning. A full SWAT team floods Annette's living room. Women scream. Someone drops a glass that shatters across the marble floor.

"DOWN! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"

This can't be happening. We're housewives. There are cheese plates. Lynn shrieks beside me and ducks instinctively. Josie grabs my arm hard enough to hurt. Helena freezes behind the table of purses, her eyes suddenly flat and calculating.

Another agent storms in from the back hallway. "Clear!"

The room fills with the metallic crackle of radios and the pounding of boots across tile. My heart slams into my ribs. The Gucci box slips from my hands and thuds onto the table.

"What—what is happening?" Annette gasps.

An agent sweeps the room with a flashlight, voice sharp and practiced. "Illegal trafficking of counterfeit luxury goods. Everyone, stay where you are."

Counterfeit? Oh God. The purses.

A wave of hysterical laughter bubbles up in my chest before I can stop it. Because the absurdity of it hits me all at once.

SWAT. TEAM.