Every time I’ve worn my favorite black dress, something good has happened. I’ve talked my way out of speeding tickets––and into a date with the cute cop––and I’ve found money on the ground, won cool prizes on the Las Vegas strip, and even got a cushy job with an even cushier paycheck.
It’s my lucky dress, and in it, I can’t lose.
Until I did.
Thanks to an enthusiastic bidder at an art auction, the dress failed me when I needed it most. I disappointed my boss and got fired, even though it wasn’t my fault. It was his. The man who writes thirty-five million dollar checks for ugly, ridiculous paintings.