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Entering the living room was like stepping into a sanctuary dedicated to greed.
A four-meter-sixty Christmas tree dominated the space, dripping with gold decorations, but no one was looking at it. All eyes were fixed on the orange leather bag resting on my sister’s lap.
Jasmine was sitting in the center of the white velvet corner sofa, clutching her handbag as if it were the baby Jesus.
“Oh, Chad, it’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed, pressing her cheek against the leather. “An authentic Hermès Birkin! I can’t believe you managed to find one!”
Chad stood behind her, a glass of scotch in his hand, his back hunched as if he had conquered a small country.
“Well,” he said, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “to be the new CEO of Logistics Solutions, you have to be the best. I had to use a lot of connections to get on that list.”
My mother, Vera, looked like she was about to faint.
“Let me touch it,” she murmured, extending her hand deferentially. “Oh, the leather is so supple. It’s an outward sign of wealth, Jasmine. When you walk into the boardroom with this, they’ll know you’ve made it.”
I stood under the arch and watched the show.
I own three Birkin bags — real ones. I used them to carry my sports gear.
From where I was, I could see the irregular stitching of the handle and the slightly different golden hue compared to the metal parts.
It was a fake.
A good counterfeit – probably a high-quality replica that cost a few hundred dollars – but not the twenty thousand dollar “investment” they thought it was.
For a moment, I considered pointing it out to him. I imagined asking Chad which store he bought it from, just to see him sweat.
But I remained silent.
