The studio smelled like cold water and eucalyptus, and the lock clicked behind us like it meant it.
I was still in my gala dress, my lip was still bleeding, and I had no plan for the rest of the night.
Nia: Sit down before you fall down.
Nia: Frozen peas and cheap vodka. That is the whole first aid kit.
Nia: And before you say anything, no. You are not going back to that house tonight.
In the little mirror by the sink, I looked like a woman who had been slapped at her own party.
He had called our marriage a contract and told me to smile, and my sister had worn Grandma's necklace while she did it.
Nia: Say it out loud. All of it. Then we put it down and we work.
Wren: My husband fucked my sister in a coat room and then told me to smile.
Nia: Okay. Fuck him. Fuck her. Now drink.
The laptop was still open on the worktable, because Night Bloom's books were due to the accountant at midnight and I had not finished them.
It was stupid to care about numbers on a night like that, but they were the only thing in my life that answered to me.
My phone lit up on the table with Cade's name, and I knew before I read it that this would not be an apology but an order.
Cade: Come home. Now.
Then a second message came in on the same screen, and it was not even from him but from my sister.
Brynn: He is in a mood. Come back and smile, placeholder.
Nia: Give me that phone. I will tell her exactly where to put it.
I put the phone face down on the table, screen to the wood, like I could smother it.
Nia: What are you doing?
Wren: Saying no. Again. It turns out I like the taste.
So we worked instead of talking, with Nia reading invoices out loud while I put the numbers into the columns.
Nia: Fourteen thousand in flowers, six in labor, and Vivian still wants a discount on the ones she crushed herself.
Wren: Then charge her for the crushing.
At eleven forty we reached the last column of the quarter, and I added it three times with my eyes shut.
Night Bloom had made money this quarter, real money that belonged to me and Nia and nobody else.
Nia: We did it. We actually fucking did it.
I cried then, which was stupid, standing in my ruined dress with my lip split open in the cold light.
I was not crying for him but for myself, because for the first time in three years I had done a thing nobody could take credit for.
Nia: This room is the only place in the city where your name means something.
Nia: So don't you dare let any of them through that door.
At 11:58 the laptop chimed with a message from a name I only knew from gossip columns and the backs of hotel menus.
Silas: Ms. Van Holt. I have watched three of your events from the back of the room.
Silas: I want a private meeting. Just us. No family.
Nia: Silas Reed? The hotel man? He is supposed to be a cold bastard, but a fair one.
Wren: He wants a private meeting.
Nia: He wants your work. And he is not asking Cade for permission.
My thumb hovered over the keys while my heel bled a little into my shoe and Cade's fingerprints stayed on my arm.
Wren: Yes. Tomorrow. My studio. My rules.
Then my phone buzzed again on the wood, and this time Cade was calling me instead of typing out another order.
I watched his name light up the wood grain and let it ring all the way out until it died.
Nia: That is the best thing I have seen all night.
In the black window I could see two women with their shoes off, laughing at nothing in a room that was finally quiet.
One of them had stopped being a placeholder tonight, and she simply had not told the family yet.