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"The entire outfit is six thousand and twenty-three dollars," I say flatly. "I'm not getting it all."

"Then let me?—"

"No," I interject. "Thank you, Gianna. I appreciate your kindness. But I refuse handouts. You've already been exceptionally generous with your payments for my artwork."

"That is not generosity," she says fiercely. "You've earned every penny I paid you. I'm not speaking to hear my own voice or merely showering you with hollow compliments, sweet girl. You possess extraordinary talent."

"Either way, I don't accept handouts."

"Then purchase it yourself," Gianna says with a note of challenge in her voice. "You can afford it... and remember, you've got more substantial payments coming, dear. You should indulge yourself."

I examine my reflection again. I'd be lying to myself if I denied wanting it. It's effortless to envision Nico approaching from behind, encircling my waist, holding me close as he devours my reflection with his eyes.

I inhale deeply. Am I seriously contemplating this? This wasn't part of my plan.

It seems that abandoning the script has become my specialty.

"Okay, I'm doing it. I'm buying the whole outfit!"

* * *

After the play, we venture to a bar called The Midnight Rambler. Yellow mood lighting enhances the ambiance... and the euphoric atmosphere of the afternoon. When I approach the bar with Gianna beside me, adorned in my brand-spanking-new outfit, I feel an undeniable sense of belonging.

We order two glasses of champagne and claim a corner seat. "Cheers," Gianna says, extending her glass.

I clink my glass against hers, feeling sophisticated, stubbornly anchored in the present moment.

"What did you think of the play?" Gianna inquires.

"It was perplexing," I murmur.

"Really? Which part?"

"The entire narrative seemed to revolve around her determination to adhere to the lessons and values her family instilled in New York, yet by the conclusion, she appears ecstatic to forge her own path, establish her independence. It's as though she abandons her family entirely."

"Or perhaps she decided she needn't remain enslaved to her family's values. She craves autonomy."

I reach into my clutch bag, squeeze the pendant, as if attempting to invoke Mom's presence and maintain my resolve. But the more time I spend with these people, the more my conviction wavers.

"Did you relate to the play?" Gianna asks.

"Why would you ask that?" I reply, my tone excessively harsh.

"You seemed deeply engrossed in it."

"She was a compelling actor. And yes, perhaps I recognized myself in her. Sometimes I feel torn between prioritizing my mother's wishes and pursuing my happiness."

"Torn, how?"

I scoff. "You don't want to delve into that."

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

I regard her seriously. "You genuinely don't," I insist. "It involves you and Nico."

"Now I have to know."

"I'll offend you."