I dressed like a person who invoices feelings. Black trousers. White shirt. Maya’s “men apologize to me” blazer. Low heels that said I can run, I just choose not to. She wolf-whistled anyway.
“Shoes say competence,” she said. “Mouth says don’t waste my time.”
“Both are true.”
At 7:58 a matte sedan stopped outside my building. The driver confirmed my name, offered water, and pretended not to clock the taped-up swan lamp on my counter as I locked the door. I texted the group: Car’s here. 30 min. I’ll behave.
Maya: Behave is optional. Boundaries are not.
Elijah: You got this. Notes, no numbers.
Vantage’s lobby felt like quiet money. Stone. Plants that looked unionized. A receptionist with a voice that could end wars. “Sas will meet you,” she said, and then Sasha appeared, all clean line
