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"You're welcome," she says sweetly. "First diagnosis is free. Follow-ups require alcohol and gossip."

She lifts her glass and clinks mine gently, voice softer now.

"You should've told me the whole story, Luna. Not the highlight reel."

I fidget with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know how," I admit. "Because it sounds pathetic when I say it out loud. Because I didn't want you to look at me like I broke myself on purpose."

"I don't think you're pathetic."

I look up, surprised by the fierceness in her voice.

"I think you're furious," she continues. "And heartbroken. And tired of being everyone's secret. I think you've been fighting for air in a house where everyone told you to breathe less."

A breath escapes me, something tight in my chest finally loosening at being seen—really seen.

"And I think," Avery continues, her eyes fixed on the collar just visible beneath my blouse, "if you tell me you're falling for this Beckett guy, I will physically rip that thing off your neck with my bare hands. While screaming. In public."

"I'm not falling for him," I say quickly, hand instinctively rising to touch the velvet ribbon.

She lifts a single, perfectly skeptical brow.

"I'm not," I insist, heat rising to my cheeks.

"You're not rising, either," she observes pointedly. "You're still wearing his mark."

"I didn't want to be rescued," I say after a while, tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass. "I just wanted to be left alone long enough to survive."

Avery looks at me for a long moment, her expressionsoftening into something I rarely see—genuine worry without judgment.

"Well," she says finally, "you're not alone. And you're not dead."

"That's the bar now?"

"Honey, for you?" Her smile is sad but genuine. "It's a win."

Avery's phone dings, pulling us from the moment. She frowns and sighs like the weight of the entire elite world is waiting in her inbox.

"I've got to go play nice at a family dinner," she mutters, sliding her sunglasses back into place with practiced elegance. "If anyone asks, I'm mentoring an orphaned artist with emotional instability and a pension for luxury bondage."

"That's..." I tilt my head, considering. "Not inaccurate."

"Nope." She stands, gathering her purse.

We both rise from the table, gathering our things in the warm afternoon sun.

Avery steps around the table and wraps her arms around me—tight, fierce, like she's trying to hold together whatever's left of me after this confession.

"You okay?" she asks against my ear, voice barely above a whisper.

I pause, considering the question seriously.

Then nod, more certain than I've felt in days.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

She kisses my cheek, lips pressing firmly enough to leave a faint mark of lipstick. "Tomorrow. Or I come find you."

I smirk, feeling something like my old self stir beneath the layers of fear and uncertainty. "Might want to bring backup."