Zara stood before her closet, still wrapped in a bathrobe, hair damp from a rushed shower, eyes locked on the digital clock blinking 5:42 PM.
Her heart sank.
"Bertha is going to kill me," she muttered, dragging out a green satin dress and tossing it aside. It was far too dramatic. She didn't need to look like she was heading to the Met Gala—just a casual evening with Diego..
Diego. That's who he was to her.
And tonight was about breathing, forgetting. Bertha had set this up with a little too much enthusiasm, practically blackmailing her into taking the evening off. "You'll thank me later," she'd said.
Zara hadn't believed her then. But now, as she brushed soft gloss across her lips and looked at her reflection, something inside her fluttered.
She hadn't looked forward to anything in a long time.
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