Lori

Landon’s text lights up my phone screen, pulling me from my half-hearted scroll through the same streaming app I’ve been cycling for days. The message sits there, simple and direct:

Marcel nailed it. MedVax deal’s locked. Big gala at the office Friday. Navarro’s probably naming her successor. Thought you’d want to know.

I stare at it for a long time. It’s been two weeks since I blocked everyone. Two weeks of avoiding calls, ignoring emails, shutting out the world. I haven’t even gone near the office.

But this text...

It’s not the news itself that gets me. It’s not even the idea of Marcel becoming the next Navarro. It’s the finality of it. Like this is the closing chapter, and I’ve been written out of it.

After evergfuckingthing I did for them.

I toss my phone onto the couch and close my eyes. The air in the apartment feels heavier than usual, the kind of weight that doesn’t shift no matter how much you try to ignore it.

Marcel pulled it off. Of course, she did.

That woman could talk an iceberg into melting if she set her mind to it.

And now there’s going to be a gala for her. It was supposed to be for us.

My first instinct is to stay away. I should. It’s not my place anymore. I made my bed when I walked out, and this isn’t the kind of thing I get to crash.

But then, there’s this thought. A quiet, nagging whisper in the back of my mind.

What if this is my last chance?

I know what I did. I know how it looked, how it felt. I know the way Marcel’s voice sounded when she told me to leave that day at the office, the way she didn’t fight to stop me. And I remember the way she stormed out of my bedroom the other night.

But I also know the things I didn’t say. The things I should’ve said.

I grab my phone again and reread Landon’s text. The words don’t change, but I do.

I can’t let this be it.

***

By the time I hit the mall, the place is buzzing with the kind of energy that makes it hard to think.

I don’t even know where to start.

I haven’t worn a dress in years. The last time was for a cousin’s wedding, and even then, it felt more like a costume than anything else. But tonight isn’t about comfort. It’s about showing up.

I wander into a store, letting my eyes scan the racks. Everything looks too bright or too shiny or too much. The sales associate glances at me but doesn’t say anything, which is fine. I’m not in the mood for small talk.

I pick up a dress, then another. One’s too short. The other’s too tight. I put them both back and keep looking.

The third one I try feels... okay. Not great, but not bad either. It’s simple, black, something that doesn’t scream for attention but still says, I belong here.

I don’t check the price tag. I don’t want to know.

At the register, the cashier scans it without a word. The total flashes on the screen, and I swipe my card before I can second-guess it. The receipt prints, and she hands it to me with a polite smile.

Back home, I hang the dress on the closet door and stare at it.

This is happening. There’s no going back now.

I sink onto the couch and pull out my phone again. Landon’s message is still there, sitting at the top of my inbox like it’s waiting for me to act.

I type out a reply, then delete it.

I don’t know what to say.

***

Friday comes faster than I expect. The day feels like a blur. I don’t eat much. I don’t watch anything. My mind stays on Marcel.

What will she say when she sees me?

What will I say?

I don’t have a plan. I’m not even sure I need one. This isn’t about rehearsing some perfect speech or hoping for some grand reconciliation. It’s about showing up.

That’s it.

Getting ready takes longer than it should. I spend half an hour fussing with my hair before giving up and pulling it into something simple. I put on the dress, slip into heels I haven’t worn in years, and stare at myself in the mirror.

I look... fine.

Not great, not bad. Just fine.

But fine will have to do.

I grab my coat, my phone, and the invitation Landon somehow managed to forward me without Navarro catching wind.

And then I’m out the door.

***

The gala is being held at one of those upscale hotels downtown, the kind with marble floors and chandeliers that cost more than my rent. The kind of place Marcel belongs in.

The kind of place I don’t.

I step into the lobby and take a deep breath. People are everywhere, dressed to the nines, holding champagne flutes and laughing like they don’t have a care in the world.

I spot a few familiar faces—coworkers, clients, people I used to grab coffee with in the break room. No one notices me at first, which is fine.

I don’t want to be noticed.

Not yet.

I make my way toward the ballroom, where the main event is happening. The doors are open, and I can see the crowd inside, hear the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses.

And then I see Marcel.

She’s standing near the stage, surrounded by people, the center of attention as always.

Her hair is perfectly styled, her dress sharp and elegant like she stepped out of a magazine. She’s laughing at something someone said, her smile easy and practiced.

She looks...

Fine.

Like she’s moved on.

Like she’s okay.

I stand frozen in the doorway, watching her.

This is it. My moment.

I take a step forward, then another.

There’s no going back now.