Eloise
I dabbed a drop of foundation beneath my eyes, smudging it in with trembling fingers. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked composed enough, hair swept into a loose bun, a silk sage blouse tucked into black wide-leg trousers. But under the surface, my veins pulsed with raw dread.
Mike’s text had come that morning. Small PR dinner. Just you, me, and a potential consultant ally. Think of it as therapy with wine.
I didn’t want wine. I didn’t want therapy. I wanted peace and silence. A night without strategising my survival or rehearsing polite lies to hide my fractures.
But here I was, stepping out of my Uber into the warm haze of Upturn’s private rooftop dining lounge. The hostess greeted me by name, leading me past sculpted palms and glass lanterns flickering against the Ma
