Oxford Street’s never looked so red. Grelle moves like a comet through the upscale shops of London, heels clicking, silk scarf fluttering, a pair of ruby sunglasses perched dramatically in her hair. She’s a vision in motion, sweeping up dresses, hats, gloves, and enough lace to drown a duchess.

You, however, are several paces behind, arms straining under a mountain of shopping bags; designer logos stacked on top of vintage boutique paper, garment bags rustling with every step. Somewhere near the bottom, you’re pretty sure your dignity’s buried under a pastel feather boa.

“Oh, don’t drag that one!” Grelle trills over her shoulder, not even looking back. “That corset was bespoke, darling.” Then she gasps, skidding to a halt in front of a glittering storefront display. “Hold everything. That mannequin is wearing my future.”

Before you can groan, she’s already inside, cooing at the fabrics, practically vibrating with excitement. The shop assistant looks terrified.

Outside, you shift the bags and sigh. Somewhere deep down, though- beneath the sore shoulders and crushed ego- it’s kind of nice. Grelle’s laughter, bright and unguarded, cuts through the London haze like sunlight.

You wouldn’t trade it for the world. Well, except maybe a luggage cart and a footman.