Your aunt gives her two cents

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle toward LUXE. The silk pajamas cling to your skin, still slightly damp from last night's sweat. Your eyes feel like sandpaper. The nightmare clings to the edges of your consciousness like a film you can't quite scrub off—faces in a crowd, mouths moving in unison, that cold recoiling hand.

Not today. Today is about the appointment. Today is about moving forward.

LUXE's chamber glows to life as you step inside. "Good morning, Miss Chloe! Tuesday Workday Look is queued and ready. Shall we begin?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

The arms descend. First, the undergarments—a matching set in soft dove-grey: a seamless microfiber T-shirt bra that cups the breast forms snugly against your chest, and bikini-cut panties in the same shade that sit low on your hips. Then a cream-colored silk blouse with a subtle sheen, buttoned to the collarbone, the fabric whispering against your skin as LUXE's fingers smooth it flat across your stomach. A high-waisted A-line skirt in charcoal wool, falling just above the knee, the hem brushing your thighs with each micro-movement. Nude stockings, sheer and cool, rolled carefully up your legs. Two-inch block heels in taupe leather, sensible but feminine.

LUXE applies your makeup with its usual precision—light foundation, a touch of concealer under your eyes to mask the dark circles from your sleepless night, soft taupe eyeshadow, a single coat of mascara, a nude lip. Your hair gets washed, conditioned, and blow-dried into a smooth low bun at the nape of your neck, secured with a simple gold clip.

"You look lovely, Miss Chloe! Professional and polished. Perfect for a Tuesday."

You catch your reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back looks tired but put-together. Competent. Like someone who didn't spend the night being told she wasn't real by a crowd of dream-people.

That's me. That's still me.

You grab your crossbody bag and your phone from the nightstand. That's when you see it—a voicemail notification from AUNT VANESSA, timestamped 11:47pm last night.

You press play.

Vanessa's voice is warm but careful, the way she gets when she's trying not to overwhelm you. "Riley, honey. It's Aunt Vanessa. I know Chloe talked to you and I'm sure she's already told you everything under the sun, so I'll keep this short. I just wanted to say—I'm so proud of you. I mean that. You've always been you, and I'm glad you're finally letting yourself see it too. I love you, and I'm here whenever you want to talk. No pressure."

A pause. You can hear Barcelona night sounds in the background—distant music, someone laughing.

"One thing, though, sweetheart. Have you told your parents yet? I know that's... I know it's complicated with your mom especially. But they deserve to hear it from you, not from me or Chloe. Think about it, okay? Call me whenever. Love you."

The voicemail ends. You stand in the hallway outside LUXE, phone in hand, the morning light filtering through the hallway windows.

My parents.

You haven't thought about them in this context. Not really. Your mother—stern, practical, emotionally distant since the divorce. Your father—absent since you were fourteen, occasional birthday texts, nothing more. The idea of calling either of them and saying I'm a woman feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down.

Not today. Today is Dr. Vasquez. Today is enough.

You pocket the phone, grab your flats from yesterday—stuffed in your bag for the bike ride—and head downstairs. The kitchen clock reads 7:22am. Work starts at nine. Janelle picks you up at 2:25. You have a full day to get through before the appointment that might change everything.

HAVEN greets you as you enter the kitchen: "Good morning, Miss Chloe. Weather forecast: partly cloudy, high of 72 degrees. Your Wi-Fi and all house systems are fully operational."

You pour coffee from the machine HAVEN brewed on schedule and stare out the window at the empty grounds. The Bianchi sits chained to the porch rail, waiting.