This Friday, 8 PM.
Tomorrow.
I should cancel. Tell Lucien Armitage I'm not feeling well, that I'm not ready, that going back to The Dominion strips away the carefully built walls I need to survive.
But I don't cancel.
Instead, I go to my closet and pull out the black dress I wore last time. Hold it up to the light. Consider whether I should wear the same thing or choose something different. Whether repetition makes me seem consistent or pathetic.
In the end, it doesn't matter. I'm going. The dress is just the costume I'll wear while I figure out why I need to be watched to feel real.
Friday arrives with the kind of clarity that feels punishing. No rain, no clouds, just unforgiving September light that makes everything look exactly like what it is. My apartment. My life. The performance I'm about to put on.
I spend the morning at the foundation office, reviewing emergency assistance requests that blur together into a catalog of suffering: broken ribs, restraining orders violated, children traumatized, bank accounts emptied.
Every application is a story I recognize because I lived adjacent to it. Gabriel never broke my ribs. Never violated a restraining order because I never got one. Never traumatized children because we never had any. But the architecture of control is the same—isolate, diminish, make her doubt her own perception until leaving feels impossible.
Solange catches me staring at an application from a woman whose husband tracked her phone, monitored her mileage, called her repeatedly when she was five minutes late coming home.
"You okay?" Solange asks.
"Just tired."
"You're always tired." She sits on the edge of my desk. "What's really going on?"
I could tell her. About the invitation. About going back to The Dominion tonight. About the way being watched made me feel less like I was disappearing. But explaining requires admitting things I don't understand yet.
"I have plans tonight," I say instead. "Social plans."
Her eyebrows rise. "With who?"
"An acquaintance. Lucien Armitage invited me to an art exhibition."
"Lucien Armitage." She says his name like she's tasting it. "The billionaire who owns that private club?"
"The Dominion. Yes."
"And you're going, why?"
"Because I was invited."
"Lana." She uses the tone that means she's about to say something I won't want to hear. "Be careful with men like that.They don't invite you to things without wanting something in return."
"I know." I do know. I spent five years married to a man who never gave anything without calculating the return on investment. "I'm not naive."
"I didn't say you were naive. I said be careful." She stands, squeezes my shoulder. "Text me when you get home tonight. Just so I know you're okay."
I promise I will, even though the concern feels misplaced. What's the worst that could happen at an art exhibition? I've already survived the worst thing I can imagine. Everything after Gabriel feels like aftershocks.
I leave the office at 3 PM. Go home. Shower with the kind of attention I haven't given myself in months—exfoliate, condition, shave my legs even though no one will see them. The rituals of preparation are meditative. They give me something to focus on besides the mounting anxiety about tonight.
At 6 PM, I start getting dressed. The black dress first—the same one from last week because consistency is easier than choice. Then makeup: foundation that evens my skin tone, concealer that hides the circles under my eyes, mascara that makes me look awake. Not too much. Gabriel always said too much makeup made me look desperate. The voice in my head is still his, even now. Maybe especially now.
I style my hair—down, straight, the way it falls naturally—and study myself in the bathroom mirror. The only mirror I haven't covered or removed. I need to see what others will see: a young widow in black, appropriately subdued, trying to recover.
Except that's not quite right. The woman in the mirror looks different from the one who attended Gabriel's funeral fivemonths ago. Less hollow. More present. Like she's starting to inhabit her own skin again instead of borrowing it.
At 7:30, I put on the shoes I bought last week—simple black heels that add three inches without being impractical—and wait. The car Lucien promised arrives at 7:42, two minutes early. I watch it from my window: same black town car, same uniformed driver. Precision, control. The things men like Lucien value most.
