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It was July 2027.

Things were going so well it almost felt suspicious.

The kind of well that made Emerald double-check the locks at night, like happiness might slip in and steal her shoes. The kind of well where Zoe was sleeping eight hours and waking up without apologies. Where Arvin was flirting with the mail carrier and swearing the pain in his knee was “just weather.” Where the diner had a line out the door most Saturdays, and Carrie only threatened two customers the entire month.

Emerald was… happy?

They had good groceries. Real olive oil. Strawberries that didn’t taste like wax. Zoe had developed a dangerous relationship with expensive salt. Emerald had written three poems that made people cry and one that got picked up by a journal with a name like Tectonic Milk.

Even the sex had softened. Less frantic. More reverent. The kind where you kiss a shoulder just to say, I see you, and not because you’re trying to win something.

The air felt lighter. Like maybe–for once–the fight wasn’t everything.

Emerald Margaret Jones had never seen so many sequins in one place without a DJ booth or someone vomiting behind a fence.

The Global Human Fund Annual Gala & Silent Auction–a name that belonged on embossed invitations or marble plaques, not in Emerald’s mouth–was held in a converted art museum, the kind that had once been a slaughterhouse, then a textile factory, and now charged eighteen dollars for cocktails and called it “philanthropy.” Zoe had invited her. Said it would be low-key. Said there would be canapés and rooftop stargazing. She had not said black tie. She had definitely not said my mother will be there, wearing silk like a weapon and three generations of disdain.

She had mentioned–offhand, like a joke she wasn’t sure was funny anymore–that she might need to make nice after that little video went viral. The one where she called the Global Human Fund

“a vulture pecking at the corpse of human kindness.”

That one. Yeah.

Emerald stood beneath a chandelier that looked like it had testified in a corruption trial, trying to keep her balance in vintage heels that pinched in one place and gaped in another. Her dress–burgundy silk, thrifted in Old City, altered by hope–clung in a way that was almost flattering if she didn’t breathe too hard. The neckline was reckless. The hem was uncertain. She’d added a denim jacket thinking edge. Now it just looked like a cry for help from someone who couldn’t read a fucking invitation.

And then… Zoe.

Zoe moved like the room had been built around her. Like every step she took was a correction, not a motion. Her tux fit like seduction had a tailor. Her walk wasn’t exactly confident–it was inevitable. Heads turned, but not fast. Not obviously. Like everyone felt her presence at the edge of their awareness before they saw her. Like she was something you sensed before it touched you.

There was a glide to her. A slow, impossible ease. A kind of stillness-in-motion that didn’t make sense in a room this loud. Emerald watched her hips, her shoulders, her wrist grazing a champagne flute–and felt something tighten low in her belly that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with fuck.

Zoe looked back.

She always looked back.

A half-smile. A flash of teeth. A glance like a promise no one else would even recognize as a sentence.

Emerald didn’t belong here.

She knew that.

But neither did Zoe.

Not really. Not in any way that made sense.

And maybe that’s why Emerald stayed.

Not to belong.

But to orbit.

To witness.

To ache for something that hadn’t revealed its name yet.

She clutched her wine glass like it might offer directions. The wine inside was clear, cold, and probably a tax write-off. She’d asked for red, but the bartender had smiled with pity and said, “We’re doing whites tonight, hon.” That ‘hon’ had wrecked her. That ‘hon’ was Philadelphia for ‘You do not belong here.’

All around her, people floated.

Not walked. Floated. In gowns like clouds of violence. In tuxes that looked airbrushed. They weren’t rich in the normal sense–they were event rich. Presentation rich. The kind of people who talked about other people’s trauma with a tone of investment. Glossy lips mouthed phrases like “sustainable access” and “grassroots impact” while fingers clutched flutes of champagne that probably had names. Nobody looked drunk. Everyone looked prepared.

Emerald had spent the Uber ride over obsessing about her hair, her dress, whether she’d shaved close enough, whether her boots would’ve been better, whether she should’ve skipped the apricot lip gloss, whether she should’ve stayed home and cried into a hoagie like the gods intend.

Zoe had kissed her cheek when they arrived, said, “Five minutes to schmooze and apologize and deflect, then I’m all yours,” and vanished into a gleaming sea of shoulders and flashbulbs and women who pronounced her name with fake enthusiasm and that international-syllable lilt: “Zoëeeeh!”

Now Emerald was ardahan escort alone.

Floating in place.

Like a football on a fucking polo field.

She tried not to clutch her wine glass like it was a weapon. Tried not to keep tugging the top of her dress into place, as if modesty might reconstitute itself from static cling and wishful thinking. Tried not to flinch every time someone drifted too close in a cloud of perfume that cost more than Zoe’s rent and probably killed bees.

Emerald scanned the room for that familiar blond riot–Zoe’s halo of chaos and confidence. Those cardinal-red lips. That smirk like she’d invented sex and dared you to prove otherwise. But all she saw were exes, board members, one too many wrap dresses, and at least two people who had definitely issued statements on behalf of Gwyneth Paltrow.

“Are you looking for someone?” came a voice–cool, precise, and shaped like expectation.

Emerald turned.

The woman stood alone, perfectly still in the way only the truly powerful ever are. Mid-fifties, maybe. Greek cheekbones carved like a ruined statue someone still prays to. Black hair in a glossy updo that screamed personal stylist, though not one who tolerated lateness. Her gown was navy satin, simple in theory but moving like an argument you lose before it begins. Diamond studs blinked at her ears. No necklace. The throat was bare. Unapologetically.

She had eyes that had seen dynasties collapse during brunch and sent thank-you notes afterward.

Melina Mercouri, if Melina had done two stints on a presidential advisory board and could kill a man with a syllable.

Emerald knew her instantly.

Dr. Athena Iliopoulos.

Zoe’s mother.

And, possibly, the most terrifying woman in the hemisphere.

Zoe’s mother.

She did not look amused.

“I’m just, um–” Emerald gestured with her wine glass, accidentally sloshed some. “Trying not to spill. Or panic.”

Athena smiled. Thin. Surgical. “First time at one of these?”

“First time at any of these.”

“Ah.”

That was all. Ah. The kind of ‘ah’ that held entire genealogies of judgment in its syllable.

Emerald straightened. Tried to find her spine under the denim jacket and rapidly melting self-confidence.

Athena’s gaze flicked to her shoes.

Then back up.

“You’re the… flamingo girl,” she said, like the phrase had been relayed to her in a file folder by someone whose last job was CIA.

Emerald laughed. Short. Loud…I’ Fuck.

“I guess I am,” she said. “The… feathered intruder.”

Athena blinked once. “Charming.”

The silence stretched.

Emerald swallowed a mouthful of wine. Too fast. Coughed. Jesus Christ.

Athena sipped her drink like hydration was for the poor. “So,” she said, voice warm as frostbite, “tell me, Emerald. What exactly do you do?”

Emerald stared.

What did she do?

She waited tables. She wiped ketchup off laminated menus. She refilled tea. She tried not to cry over people who kissed her then left without cleaning up the mess. She wrote poetry on receipts. She has never been on vacation. She had a savings account with $83.12 and a free checking promo t-shirt.

She smiled.

“I make Zoe laugh.”

Athena tilted her head.

And for the briefest moment–the briefest moment–something in her expression cracked.

Something like approval.

Or maybe just recognition.

Then it was gone.

Athena turned back to the room. “Well. The board will find that… refreshing.”

Emerald didn’t know what that meant.

But she held her ground.

Even when Zoe reappeared five minutes later, breathless and glowing, and linked her arm through Emerald’s like she was staking a claim.

Athena raised one brow. Sipped her wine.

Zoe grinned. “Mom. You met my date.”

Athena’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“She’s memorable.”

Zoe vanished again.

Not maliciously–just gravitationally. Like the event had its own tide, and she was the moon. She got swept into some circle of soft laughs and sharp blazers, one of those slow-moving orbits where people said things like “cross-sector resilience” and “meaningful partnerships” without choking on their own pretension.

Emerald was left near a sculpture that looked like a crucified boba straw and cost more than her yearly rent.

A woman in a silk cape brushed past her, trailing a scent that screamed bergamot and backroom deals. A man in a chartreuse tux complimented her dress, then visibly recalibrated when he clocked the denim jacket. His smile dropped two social strata.

Emerald didn’t mean to drift. But Zoe was busy–posing, laughing, leaning conspiratorially into a circle of people who all smelled like eucalyptus and inherited wealth–and the crush of bodies, the heat of the room, the chandelier’s low sparkle like it might fall at any moment… it got to her. She slipped away, wine glass sweating in her hand, heels already mutinying.

She found herself by a koi fountain no one was watching. artvin escort The water glittered like gossip. A fish blinked at her.

“Those shoes,” said a voice nearby, soft as velvet soaked in something stronger. “They’re vintage, aren’t they?”

Emerald turned, and there she was.

Vera Zorina deClerc.

The ballerina. The icon. Twenty and terrifying. Standing barefoot on the marble like it was a stage, a column of silk and bone and radiant, terrible poise. She was sipping something lavender from a coupe glass and didn’t blink often. Her hair was wound into a knot that should’ve collapsed under its own elegance. It didn’t.

“Yeah,” Emerald managed. “Philly AIDS Thrift. Ten bucks.”

“Of course,” Vera said. “All the best things are found under someone else’s grief.”

Emerald blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Vera smiled like she’d swallowed the moon and wasn’t done yet. “You look like someone who once wanted to be a dancer.”

“I–maybe? I took ballet when I was five.”

“You quit.”

“I got bored.”

“No,” Vera said. “You got embarrassed. Someone laughed when you fell out of relevé.”

Emerald froze.

“Didn’t they?” Vera asked, still smiling. “That kind of moment sticks to you.”

“How the hell–?”

But Vera was already spinning, slow and effortless, a pirouette that didn’t disturb the air. She stopped on pointe–barefoot–and said, “My mothers danced. That’s how they met. Swan Lake, two dancers, one stage, one spotlight. Enemies at first. Passion makes a poor negotiator.”

Emerald laughed nervously. “Your mothers?”

Vera looked at her like the question didn’t make sense.

“They fell in love,” she said. “Skipped curtain call in Rome. Vanished for two months. When they returned, I was already beginning.”

“Beginning what?”

Vera sipped her drink. “Gestation. Existence. You know. The usual.”

“…Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but–“

“No sperm,” Vera said gently, as if correcting a child’s grammar. “Just desire.”

Emerald stared.

Vera tilted her head. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t not believe you.”

“That’s the right answer,” Vera said, pleased. She plucked a koi-shaped ice cube from her glass and slipped it between her lips. It melted instantly.

Zoe found her then, sliding behind her like a wave returning to shore. Her palm pressed against Emerald’s back. “There you are. I was starting to think you’d been recruited.”

“I was,” Emerald said, eyes still locked on Vera. “For… something.”

“Vera,” Zoe said, nodding. “You still telling that story?”

“It’s not a story,” Vera said.

Zoe rolled her eyes. “It’s not not a cult pitch.”

Vera just smiled and walked away without walking–she glided, disappearing into the chandelier-glow and cocktail chatter like a hallucination fading in daylight.

Emerald exhaled. “She’s lying, right?”

Zoe shrugged. “If she is, it’s the only lie I’ve ever heard that feels like a hymn.”

She tried to sip her wine. It was warm now. Of course it was.

Maybe she’s not the weirdest thing in the room.

“Emerald Jones?” came a voice behind her.

She turned too fast, like a freshman caught vaping in the auditorium.

The man approaching her looked like he was grown in a lab for moderate centrism: perfect jaw, artfully graying temples, the kind of face that belonged on a “Meet Our Partners” page with a caption that said disrupting inequity through empathy and analytics. His smile was tight. Sincere in the way air freshener is sincere.

“I’m Conrad,” he said. “Zoe’s old boss at Endeavor Ethical. You’re the poet?”

Emerald blinked.

“…Sure.”

“You wrote that piece about structural grief, right? The one Zoe read at the Brooklyn benefit?”

Oh. That.

Fuck. Yes.

That night she was high, sunburnt, and had forgotten she even sent it. Zoe had begged to read it. “One minute,” she’d said. “One fuckin’ minute. Let me sound like I feel things.”

Emerald thought she was bluffing.

She wasn’t.

She’d stood under the lights, her voice cracking on “Grief is the ghost of what loved you back,” and Emerald had watched the whole room forget how to breathe.

Now that ghost was shaking her hand.

Conrad said, “You’ve got teeth in your work. I respect that.”

Emerald smiled. “Thanks. I floss.”

He laughed. The kind of laugh that showed all his veneers. “No, really. You’re young, but there’s precision. Intent. You could do something with that. Ever thought about a fellowship?”

“I, uh. I serve hash browns.”

He chuckled. “Well, if you’re ever ready to trade in the fryer for a foundation, call me. I love developing raw voices.”

Something about the way he said raw made her feel like meat. Still, she pocketed the card. She was hungry enough for attention to ignore the expiration date on sincerity.

Then came another one.

They descended in flocks. Important People™. Like they’d gotten a whiff of emerging narrative tension and wanted to be part of it before bodrum escort it got optioned for a Netflix limited series.

There was the Documentarian with oversized glasses and a voice like a podcast that made you feel guilty for fast-forwarding.

“I’m doing a piece on queer frontline workers post-COVID–do you mind if I ask how grief informs your praxis?”

Emerald blinked. “I… make coffee.”

The Documentarian nodded sagely. “Exactly. That’s the frontline.”

Next was Tawni with an “i,” who ran a nonprofit for women impacted by global masculinities.

“I’ve read everything Zoe’s tweeted about you,” she said, adjusting her triple-layered choker. “I love that you’re not trying to be visible. There’s so much power in refusal.”

“I’m just shy.”

“Exactly.”

And then–like fate just wanted to fuck with her–someone handed her a mic.

It wasn’t an ambush. Technically.

Zoe had signed them up for the “Emerging Voices” segment. Emerald was supposed to say a few words about accessibility in art. Something bite-sized. Something raw. Something Authentic™.

She stood there, under the lights, denim jacket too hot, wine glass trembling in her hand.

“Hi,” she said into the mic. “I’m Emerald Jones. And, um–“

A hundred upturned faces.

Perfectly moisturized.

Waiting.

“I write poems sometimes. Mostly on napkins. Usually about girls I shouldn’t text back.”

A few soft laughs.

She tried again.

“I didn’t grow up with gallery spaces. Or mentorship. Or good lighting. But I know how grief tastes. I know how rage sounds in the voice of a woman who can’t leave the apartment but still tips her waitress double.”

Silence now.

Focus.

“I don’t know how to fix the world. But I know how to document the pieces that crack. And sometimes… that’s enough. Sometimes a poem is the difference between collapse and continuity.”

Pause.

Breathe.

“I guess what I’m saying is–I’m not here because I belong. I’m here because Zoe said I did. And sometimes that’s the only bridge you get.”

She handed the mic back. The applause was polite.

But Zoe’s face–across the room, jaw tight, eyes glassy–was not.

Zoe looked at her like she just tattooed a moon on her ribs.

Later, someone told her that speech got her three new Instagram followers and a passive-aggressive tweet from a poet named Cam who said, “Some girls wear poverty like a corset.”

Emerald retweeted it with a picture of a hoagie.

And a caption that said, “Bite me, Cam.”

Maybe she’s not the weirdest thing in the room…Just the hottest one in a denim jacket.

Zoe’s Apartment, 8:43 a.m.

Zoe Jane Iliopoulos was nude and unbothered.

The kind of nude that wasn’t begging for attention. The kind of nude that just was. Like light through a window. Like gravity. Like the fact that she didn’t own matching socks and didn’t care who knew.

Sunlight spilled into the loft in crooked, golden shards–angled through industrial blinds and catching on everything soft: the curl of her hip, the curve of her shoulder, the lazy drape of her tits as she bent to retrieve Emerald’s underwear from under the couch like it was a treasure in a very specific, very slutty video game.

She hummed as she moved. Off-key. Half-words. Catching only the sticky vowels and synth echoes of Pink Pony Club as it looped through her head like morning prayer.

“I wanna go… where the boys dance in heels…”

She found her own bra tangled in the fake fern. Still clasped. Proud of it. It had survived the gala. It had not survived Emerald.

Zoe beamed like someone who’d won something she hadn’t realized she was playing for.

She padded barefoot across the concrete floor, pausing to pick up Emerald’s heel–just one, like Cinderella fucked a poet and forgot the fairytale rules. The other was still in the bathroom, dangling off the side of the tub like it had opinions about shower sex and no patience for subtlety.

Zoe was bruised in three places. Nothing dramatic. Just little fingerprints of pleasure, like the universe finally decided to mark her as touched. A violet bloom on her inner thigh. A red half-moon on her shoulder where Emerald bit down. A faint line across her stomach from the zipper on that godawful thrifted dress that somehow made her look like the last girl in a prom movie who actually gets laid.

She hummed louder.

“I’m gonna keep on dancing at the… Pink Pony Club…”

The kitchen was a graveyard of abandoned wine glasses and half-eaten olives. Her emergency cheese–never touch a woman’s emergency cheese–was gone. She didn’t care. She was grinning. She’d been grinning since she woke up and Emerald was still there. Still asleep. All wild curls and slow breath and a hand curled against Zoe’s hip like it belonged there.

Zoe picked up the dress next. Emerald’s. Still warm, somehow. Still smelled like sweat and wine and nerves and whatever scent she wore that made Zoe want to cancel her plans for the next five years.

She folded it gently. Laid it across the back of the couch like Shroud of Turin.

She didn’t fold the denim jacket.

She held it instead. Wore it for a second. Felt the weight. The story in the seams.

Then she whispered, to the sunlight, to the dust, to the absent girl in her bed:

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