When I return to the yroom, Mara is stacking tiny chairs. The spill zone has been wiped clean, but herughter is still going strong. My story is just more wind in her sails.


    “You called him ‘Mr. Beast’? To his face?” She doubles over, hand pressed against her stomach. “And he actually responded to it? Oh my God, I would’ve paid money to see that.”


    “It wasn’t me—it was Chloe.” I sink into a miniature chair that doesn’t so much support my weight as reluctantly acknowledge it andin about the imposition. “I’m gonna get fired, Mar. What the hell is a ‘Code Red priority’?”


    Mara waves this away like I’m fretting over spilled milk instead of my entire livelihood. “Girl, please. If he wanted to fire you, he would’ve done it on the spot.”


    “Then what does he want?”


    Her smile shifts into something knowing. “Same thing most men want when they look at you like that.”


    “Like what?”


    “Like you’re a cupcake and they haven’t eaten in days.” She perches on the edge of the craft table. “Think about it. You’re exactly his type.”


    I blink. “I have a type?”


    “ording to the gossip blogs, Pavlov goes for curvy brtes with perfect skin.” She ticks these points off on her fingers. “The tabloids are always catching him with some model or actress draped over his arm. Neversts more than a month, though.”


    Great. So the guy who signs my paychecks is a yer with a wandering eye andmitment issues. What a dreame true.


    “I don’t want to be anyone’s type, especially not his. I need this job.”


    “Rx. If he tries anything sleazy, just threaten awsuit. He might be a billionaire, but no one’s immune to a good old-fashioned sexual harassment im.”


    “That’s your solution?” My voice rises an octave. “Threaten legal action against one of the most powerful men in Palm Beach?”


    “I’m just saying it’s an option.” She shrugs, unperturbed. “But honestly, in the five years I’ve been here, he’s been pretty decent about workce stuff. Pavlov Industries has a solid harassment policy, and from what I’ve seen, he backs it up.”


    None of thisforts me.


    Not even a little.


    The prospect of sitting across from Oleg Pavlov—discussing God knows what while he looks at me with those strip-you-naked-and-spank-you-raw eyes—makes my stomach twist into a knot.


    I’ve spent two excruciatingly long years learning how to avoid men who make me feel like that.


    The ones whose attention feels both exhrating and terrifying.


    The ones who look at you like they already know all your secrets.


    “I just…” I exhale shakily. “I hate confrontation.”


    “No shit.” Mara’s expression softens. “Remember when that dad yelled at you for not finding his kid’s missing shoe, and you cried in the supply closet for twenty minutes?”


    “It was fifteen minutes, max.”


    She pats my shoulder. “Listen, it’s probably nothing. He’ll ask about the incident, tell you not to use the executive gym ever again under pain of death, maybe make you sign something saying you won’t sue if Chloe’s parents find out she was unsupervised while you did a strip tease. Then it’ll be over.”


    I nod, but my throat’s still tight. Confrontation, dates,wsuits—they all require the same thing: standing up for myself.


    And that’s exactly what I’m worst at.<hr>


    My afternoon break can’te fast enough.


    After the Princess Belle fiasco, I hide in the staff bathroom, obsessively refreshing my email and messages, waiting for the executioner’s digital ax.


    But it doesn’te.


    Nothing from Pavlov Industries HR.


    Nothing from Mr. Beast himself.


    Maybe he forgot about me? A girl can dream, right?


    Right on cue, my phone buzzes. For a heartbeat, panic seizes my chest—until I see it’s just an email from Starlight Photography in Vegas.


    The subject line reads: “Your mour Session Photos—Ready for Download!”


    Oh, God. I’d almost forgotten.


    I tap the link, enter the password, and?—


    Holy. Mother. Of. Cheesecake.


    Guess it’s my day to remember I have boobs. First, the costume disaster; now, this.


    The universe is really hammering home the point.


    No points for subtlety in this life, I suppose.


    The first image loads: me, draped across a velvet chaise lounge in ck lingerie, hair tumbling over my shoulders, looking at the camera like I actually know what I’m doing.


    Which, to be clear, I absolutely did not.


    The photographer kept saying things like “Give me smolder!” and “Channel your inner goddess!” while I tried not to die of embarrassment.


    I swipe to the next photo. Sydney and me, back-to-back, her in redce, me in ck, bothughing at some stupid joke she’d cracked about taking a ride on the photographer’s handlebar mustache.


    My throat tightens.


    Sydney’s smile in these photos is real—not the stic one she wears around Paul, but the one I remember from when we were little girls.


    The whole photo shoot had been Syd’s idea, of course. She’d shown up at my hotel roomst Wednesday, mascara smeared down her cheeks, clutching her phone like she wanted to crush it.


    “He called me fat,” she’d spat, pacing the ugly carpet. “Twice! Because I ordered dessert at dinner. In front of his friends!”


    Lipovsky.


    That walking shit stain.


    I’ve hated him since the moment Sydney introduced us three years ago. He’s twice her age with ten times the ego and half the conscience.


    Casino owner, and he never lets you forget it. Expensive, shiny suits. Eyes that never quite make it up to your face when he talks to you. Talks at you, rather.


    “Leave him, Syd,” I’d begged for the thousandth time. “You don’t need this. You don’t need him.”


    But Sydney’s face had hardened in that way I know too well—the same look she wore when she was eight and I was four and she’d promised we wouldn’t be separated in foster care if Mama didn’te home that night.


    Determination like concrete. We Palmer women have that in spades.


    No good luck, no good sense—but stubbornness? Oh, hell yeah.


    We’re as stubborn as the day is long.


    “I’m going to show that mofo exactly what he’d be missing,” she’d dered instead, already tapping at her phone. “Starlight Photography does boudoir sessions. We’re both going.”


    “‘We’? As in me, too? No way.”


    “Yes way. Sister solidarity. Besides—” Her voice had softened, vulnerability peeking through—”I need you there. Please?”


    And like always, I’d caved.


    Because it’s Sydney.


    Because she raised me when no one else could or would.


    Because saying no to her feels like betraying the only person who’s never abandoned me.


    So we’d spent three hours in a photography studio off the Strip, pouting and posing while Sydney knocked back champagne and I tried to channel confidence I absolutely do not possess.


    Looking at the photos now, I don’t recognize myself. The woman on my screen looks bold, sensual, unafraid. It’s a costume every bit as fake as that Belle dress, but somehow, more convincing.


    What was I thinking? These aren’t me. I’m the invisible daycare worker who wears shapeless clothes and hides in bathroom stalls.


    But for Sydney…


    For Sydney, I’d wear my heart outside my body if she asked me to.


    My break’s almost over. I set my phone on the sink and ssh cold water on my face. It’s time to get back to what matters.


    No more Pavlov, no more princess dresses, no more photos today. Just finger-painting with the two-year-olds.


    I can handle that much, at least.


    But before I go, I take onest look at the screen. My thumb hovers over the delete button, trembling slightly.


    Delete them. Just do it.


    But Sydney’s face shes through my mind—how excited she was during the shoot,ughing as she posed, momentarily free from Paul’s critical gaze. Her eyes lit up when the photographer showed us the preview shots.


    “We look like goddamn movie stars,” she’d whispered, squeezing my arm.


    For a few hours, we were just sisters again.


    I pull my finger back. Sydney paid the equivalent of two weeks’ worth of my sry for these pictures. She wanted them to prove something to Paul—but maybe they’ll remind her of something more important—that she’s beautiful without his validation. That she deserves better.


    Before I can overthink it, I tap Forward and type Sydney’s name. I add a quick message:


    These turned out great. Miss you already. Call me when you can. xo


    My finger hesitates again, but this time over “Send.” What if Paul sees them? What if he gets even more controlling, more critical?


    What if these photos somehow make things worse?


    But I can’t protect Sydney from everything. God knows I’ve tried.


    All I can do is be there when she needs me, no matter how many miles separate us.


    I hit Send.


    The confirmation appears: “Link shared sessfully.”


    A small weight lifts from my chest. Whatever happens with these photos, at least Sydney will know I’m in her corner. At least she’ll have proof of how radiant she looked that day,ughing in the studio lights.


    I tap back to my download link and delete it without further ceremony.


    No need to keep them. Thest thing I need is identally opening that folder during story time with the preschoolers.


    Or worse—having them pop up if Pavlov decides to check my browsing history after our meeting tomorrow.


    The thought of him seeing those photos makes my stomach lurch in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, which is precisely why they need to go.


    I’ve spent too much time around men who see vulnerability as an invitation.


    I tuck my phone away and nce in the mirror before I go. It reflects someone I hardly recognize—a woman with shadows under her eyes and worry lines around her mouth.


    But also someone who survived today’s princess dress debacle.


    Someone who’ll survive tomorrow’s meeting with the Beast.


    One crisis at a time, Palmer.