Cross the Line, Cross Them Out

During the holiday, my six-year-old son received his cleft-lip surgery. He wore a mask and sat quietly in our family bookstore, engrossed in a picture book.

A young man came in, pinching his nose dramatically as he swaggered up to the manager.

"Why did you let someone with an infectious disease in here?" he demanded loudly. "Get them out!"

The manager winced. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I don't have the authority to remove other customers."

Undeterred, the man marched up to me. "Be wise and get out of here. My girlfriend is Imogen Slater, CEO of the Slater Group. You don't want to mess with me."

I froze in stunned silence.

Imogen despised all men except me, and this guy claimed she was his girlfriend.

...

The bookstore manager seized Thomas Morrow's arm, his voice low but firm. "Sir, please keep it down. You're disturbing the other readers."

Thomas's eyebrows twisted into knots of rage. He jerked his arm free with a violent shake, growling, "Didn't you hear me? I'm your boss's boyfriend, and you want me to whisper? I can get you fired in a minute!"

He smoothed the wrinkles from his silk cuffs, then cast a disdainful glance at my simply short-sleeved shirt. "That kid and his father are clearly contagious. Clear the store and sanitize every surface."

His arrogance was staggering.

My son, Simon Hays, hadn't uttered a word or coughed once. He was quietly reading and hadn't affected anyone.

This guy was deliberately causing trouble.

The manager rolled his eyes discreetly, then leaned in close to me and whispered, "Sir, shall we escort this lunatic, who's impersonating you, out of the store?"

I shook my head calmly. The blatant discrimination against Simon already had my blood boiling, but curiosity burned hotter: just how many men did Imogen keep behind my back?

Meeting the man's haughty glare head-on, I fired back, "Wearing a mask means you're infectious? Then your baseball cap must mean you're brain-dead."

Before I could finish, Simon tugged urgently at my sleeve. His eyes were wide with worry, silently pleading for me not to argue. I ruffled his hair reassuringly, but my words ignited Thomas's anger.

In a flash, he yanked Simon's mask off. "My girlfriend owns this bookstore, and I say no masks are allowed!"

Then he flinched, shrieking as if he'd glimpsed something horrific. "What's wrong with his mouth? Is he some kind of freak? Get out of my store!"

I rushed over and shoved him back. "Hands off my son! If you can't speak civilly, then shut your mouth!"

I snatched the mask from his grasp, wrapped Simon in a tight embrace as he trembled violently, and carefully refastened it over his face.

Thomas planted his hands on his hips and bellowed at the staff. "Someone, throw them out!"

The employees stood frozen, their eyes darting nervously toward me.

This fueled his tantrum. "Fine! If no one acts, I'll call my girlfriend right now and have every one of you fired!"

Simon shook harder in my arms, and my heart ached. He had always been insecure about his lip shape, and now the loud chaos terrified him.

Cold fury rising, I shot back, "Go ahead! Let's see if your so-called CEO girlfriend can make me leave."

Thomas raised his chin, pulling out his phone to type furiously. Moments later, his expression flickered with something strange and unreadable as he stared at the screen.

Meanwhile, the manager's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and grimaced with disgust.

I raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

He faltered. "Mrs. Hays instructed us to provide this gentleman with a private VIP room."

Thomas shot me a victorious glare over his shoulder. "Hear that? Imogen doesn't want me sharing air with lowly peasants like you."

He strutted away after an employee, his leather shoes clicking smugly against the floor.

I stared at his retreating figure, my phone lighting up with a new message.

Imogen: [Honey, why aren't you replying? Should I just go ahead and book the restaurant?]

Me: [What exactly are you doing right now?]

A photo popped up, showing her sitting at a conference table, exhaustion etched across her features.

Imogen: [Stuck in meetings all day. Haven't even had a sip of water.]

She was a notorious workaholic, always unavailable during meetings, except for me. This had to be a coincidence. Directing the staff to isolate Thomas simply de-escalated the scene. It was reasonable.

Still, the mood for reading was utterly ruined. I gathered Simon and headed to the mall instead.

My phone buzzed again with a message from my friend.

Donald Diaz: [Bro, that idiot secretly photographed you two and tagged a fake account of Imogen!]

The forwarded tweet showed our backs as we left the bookstore. The caption read: [Encountered a brat and his ill-mannered dad. Good thing my girlfriend has my back.]

I tapped into the fake profile. Its settings showed "visible for the last six months only".

But Imogen hadn't touched Twitter in seven years. Her final post was still our wedding photo from back then. It looked like someone was impersonating her and pulling off some sort of con.

I assumed the farce had finally ended, but as I stood in the luxury boutique listening to the manager's report on last quarter's new arrivals, those same familiar leather soles echoed behind me once more.

I turned, and there stood Thomas at the entrance, arm crossed with a scowl. "It's you again! Bumpkins and freaks have no business in high-end stores."

He sauntered inside, sizing me up like discarded trash. "We don't sell cheap grocery bags here, old man."

His gaze swept the displays before locking on the limited-edition crocodile-skin shoes in the clerk's hands. He said simply, "I'll take those."

The clerk hesitated, glancing at me. "Sir..."

I exhaled slowly and waved a hand. "Let the 'VIP customer' have them."

The staff exchanged glances laced with pity as Thomas accepted the box with gleeful satisfaction. Turning to me, he sneered, "Tsk. You can only window-shop these luxuries, huh?"

"Check, please," he declared grandly, flashing a credit card.

Those crocodile-leather shoes, priced at $1.38 million, were not items for flashy people like him. Even if he sold every knock-off item on his body, he couldn't cover the deposit.

Yet the terminal beeped: transaction approved. I stood rooted in shock as the clerk meticulously wrapped the shoes for him.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and Imogen's voice came through. "Honey, why didn't you answer my messages? Once this busy period ends, how about I take you and Simon on a proper vacation?"

Her words barely registered. She was perpetually swamped; she couldn't even carve out time to pick Simon up from school, let alone take leave for travel.

I'd heard the rumors: when a wife cheated, guilt would drive her to overcompensate with grand gestures.

My stomach twisted into knots. I mumbled a vague reply and abandoned the report midway.

Thomas, ever petty, couldn't resist another jab. "Escort these disease carriers out! They're ruining my shopping experience."

He flipped open his phone and thrust a photo toward the staff. "See? My girlfriend—Imogen Slater. Disobey me, and you're all fired."

Every pair of eyes in the boutique swiveled toward me. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at the woman in the photo. It was none other than Imogen smiling behind her desk.