Jennifer’s POV
The Texas sun felt different this morning. It wasn't the oppressive, glaring eye that had judged me for months; it was warm, almost forgiving. I walked into the Jenny Gallery” the heels Croft had gifted me, clicking a confident, decisive rhythm on the polished concrete floor. The sound was a declaration.
“Good morning, Mirabel! That color is stunning on you,” I said to the intern at the front desk, my voice bright and clear.
Mirabel looked at me with shock, her eyes wide. “Oh! Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. Good morning!”
I moved through the main space, my new silk dress swaying as I walked. “Michael, the lighting on the Pollock-esque piece is perfect. You’ve outdone yourself.” The head of installation, a usually grumpy man in his fifties, looked up, startled. A slow, hesitant
