“I like efficiency,” I say.“Find something that works and move on.”
“Practical.”Her eyes flick down, assessing.“That’s not always an advantage, mija.Men notice effort, especially when they’re deciding what you’re worth.”
The way she saysworthhits a defensive reflex.
“I’ve never had trouble being noticed.”
She smiles just enough to bare her teeth, then stops at a rack of tailored cocktail dresses.Navy.Black.A single deep green that catches the light like water.
“For tonight,” she says, fingers moving over the fabric with the ease of someone who has handled fine things her whole life.“Something elegant.Not loud.You’re representing Jagger now.”
Something tightens between my shoulders.
A sales associate drifts over.Valentina doesn’t look at her, just points.“That one.And that.”Then to me, “You know your size?”
“Yes.”
“Good.Confidence is attractive.Vanity isn’t.Keep that in mind.”
She sinks into a velvet chair, crosses her legs, and gestures toward the dressing room.
The mirrors multiply me.Front.Side.Back.No angle left unexamined.
The first dress—black satin, bias cut—is too short.The second—forest green crepe—is a delicate work of art.
When I step out, Valentina doesn’t move.Her eyes do the work, sweeping slow and thorough, like she’s already decided what she’ll correct.
The way she looks at me hits an old nerve, one I thought I’d buried years ago.My spine reacts before my brain does.
My mother’s voice is low and precise, meant for instruction, not comfort.She stands just out of frame, adjusting the line of my shoulder, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing.Every correction lands lightly, carefully—too much force would look bad.
“Stand straight,” she says.“You want them to see confidence.”
My throat tightens.I nod.Nodding is easier than arguing, and arguing only makes things last longer.The dress pulls when I breathe too deeply.I learn not to.
Lights glare.Music starts.The stage stretches wide and empty.I can feel my mother watching even when I can’t see her, tracking every movement, every mistake she’ll correct later.
Turn.
I do.Slowly.Exactly the way I was taught.Not too eager.Not defiant.Just enough.
My chest aches with the effort of holding still—of holdingright.Approval drifts in, quiet and conditional.I’m not praised.
I’m allowed to continue.
That’s how love works.You do it correctly, or you don’t get it at all.
“Turn,” Valentina says.
My body responds before my pride can object.I rotate, slow and mechanical.
Her nod is almost imperceptible.“Better.The color suits you.Makes you look less… exotic.”
It’s not the first time someone has commented on my complexion.It took me nearly twenty years to accept that mixed heritage means I’ll always be slightly out of place.
I meet her gaze in the mirror.“Maybe exotic isn’t always a bad thing.”
She smiles, but it’s lacking any warmth.“For a woman in your position, blending in is essential.”
