Wendy
The drive through Manhattan felt strangely weightless.
Rain-speckled traffic crawled around us in glittering ribbons of red brake lights and blurred storefront reflections, but inside Sabrina’s town car, everything felt insulated. Soft leather. Low jazz humming through hidden speakers. The faint scent of vanilla and expensive perfume curling through the warm air.
Sabrina was sitting beside me scrolling through photos from the runway show on her phone, casually critiquing silhouettes with the effortless confidence of someone who belonged in that world. Every few seconds, she angled the screen toward me.
“See?” she scoffed lightly. “This shoulder construction is completely uneven. You used to lose your mind over lazy tailoring like this.”
And the terrifying thing was… I could unde
