I hang up. My hands are shaking. I make them stop by forcing them to move.
I start a list.
Childcare.
Dress.
Transportation.
Contingencies.
Emergency contacts.
Exit plan.
Plans are what I do. Plans are how I breathe.
The concierge downstairs is a woman with bright lipstick and tired eyes. She knows more about the building than she admits. She has that look people get when they’ve survived something and learned to keep smiling, anyway.
I ask her, casually, if she knows a babysitter.
“My niece sometimes,” the concierge replies. “She’s good. She’s in college. She babysits for a few families.”
My stomach tightens. “Is she… safe?”
The concierge’s eyes soften a fraction. “Yes,” she says simply.
I ask for her number. Back upstairs, I call it. The niece’s name is Rosa. She sounds young but not careless. She asks the right questions. Nico’s bedtime, allergies, emergency contacts. I give her my sister’s number, too, even though Marcia is hours away, because I need someone outside this city who knows my name.
Rosa says she can come. I swallow the urge to cry from relief.
Then comes the dress. I do not have money for a dress. I have enough money for gas station snacks and bus fare and keeping the lights on if nothing goes wrong this month.
Things are always one bad month from collapsing.
But I can’t look “cheap” at a Mancini gala. Marco would use it as proof I’m unstable. I can’t look “flashy,” either, because attention is dangerous. I can’t look like I’m trying, because he’ll frame it as me chasing him. I need invisibility disguised as elegance.
I find a consignment shop two neighborhoods away. The woman behind the counter has silver hair and sharp eyes and no patience for performance. She watches me hover near the racks like I’m deciding whether I deserve to exist in her store.
“What are we shopping for?”
My mouth goes dry. “A gala,” I say. “I need to borrow a dress for a gala.”
Something in her face changes. Not softening, exactly, but recognizing. Like she’s seen women with tight jaws and tired eyes before.
“Black,” she says before I can ask. “You want black. Simple. Conservative. Fabric that doesn’t cling. Neckline that doesn’t invite. Sleeves if you can.”
I stare at her. “How do you know?”
She gives me a look. “Because I’m not stupid.”
I swallow hard. She pulls three dresses without asking my size. I hate how good she is at this.
The first one is too tight at the hips. The second one is too low in the neckline.
The third one… the third one is perfect in the worst way. Black. Long sleeves. Not overly modest, but controlled like a boundary. It hits mid-calf. The fabric moves when I move, heavy enough to feel like armor.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I barely recognize the woman looking back. Three years ago, I ran with one bag and bruises and adrenaline. Now I look like someone who knows how to survive with her spine straight.
