Sultana had always believed she understood proximity — the art of standing near greatness without ever demanding its spotlight.
Her life was a collection of borrowed lights: artists she’d managed, patrons she’d flattered, names she’d helped raise. But Gigi… Gigi had been different.
She wasn’t supposed to outgrow her.
Gigi was meant to be her success story — the girl she’d “discovered,” polished, and guided from fragile beginnings into the world’s eye. The one who owed her everything.
But lately, when Sultana watched Gigi’s face flash across art magazines or television interviews, it wasn’t pride that bloomed in her chest anymore. It was something smaller. Tighter. A bruised, bitter ache.
Gigi was no longer called by her first name when opportunities came.
She didn’t seek her advice a
