Chapter 39
Lauren
Muse Magazine hummed the way it always did—phones trilling, the low clatter of keyboards. Chic hairstyles. Designer clothing. Lauren stepped out into all of it, hair wind-roughed, eyes puffy from another night of sleeplessness.
The smell of drying paint and hot glue clung to her sweater. Her hands still had glitter in the knuckles, tiny flecks that caught the elevator’s fluorescent light and threw it back at her.
“Make way!” Zoe popped up over her monitor like a meerkat. “Elf queen approaches with… holy hell, what is that?”
The commission wasn’t neat. It wasn’t tasteful. It was a riot—ribbon and hearts and unapologetic color with letters that shouted and glitter that refused to behave. Her anger had been the engine, but the look of it now… it was alive.
“DIVORCED AF?” Wren read out, rolling out into the aisle with her chair to get a better look. “Is this… are you and Tom… ?”
Lauren laughed—a short, embarrassed sound. “Oh! No. No, that’s—it’s a commission. For Valentine’s Day.”
For a moment there was silence.
Then Rina from Features let out a whoop.
Wren clutched her chest. “Oh my God, our girl’s gone pro.”
Zoe leaned forward, delighted. “As in real money?”
“Real money,” Lauren confirmed, cheeks flushing.
Zoe was already pulling out her phone. “Okay, we’re making you a website. You need a gallery, a booking form, testimonials—”
Rina flipped open her notebook. “We need to look into packaging and shipping.”
Wren spun her chair toward them, typing furiously. “Socials. People love crafts on social media.”
Lauren pressed a hand to her mouth, half laughing, half overwhelmed. “You guys, slow down.”
“No time,” Sage said, eyes sparkling. “We’re behind already. You’re the one with the flourishing business. We’re just catching up.”
Rina pointed her coffee cup at the riot of color on the easel. “You’re about to make so much money.”
Lauren snorted, unable to stop the small grin that pulled at her mouth. “Maybe I’ll give Tom a check next time,” she said under her breath.
The group went silent for half a second, then Sage barked out a laugh. “Oh my God, please do. Frame it.”
Lauren laughed too—really laughed—at the absurdity, the healing sting of it.
It surprised her how good it felt.
Sage squinted through her viewfinder.
The strobes fired—pop, pop. Glitter threw tiny stars across the paper backdrop. Lauren stood behind Sage’s shoulder, heart rabbiting, breathing the studio air: warm dust, hot bulbs, faint coffee.
“I’m not sure what my client will think,” Lauren confessed before she could swallow the truth. “It’s… quite different to my Christmas ones.”
“Quite different is why she wanted you to make something,” Rina said.
Another burst of light.
“Incredible,” Zoe breathed from the doorway.
Lauren laughed—small, startled. She wasn’t used to being someone this…cool.
She liked it.
Sage clicked, adjusted, clicked again.
Vivian appeared, hands in the pockets of her blazer, watching with the expression she got when a story slid into place. “Well?”
Sage pointed at the monitor instead of wasting breath. Vivian leaned in. Stared. The corner of her mouth lifted.
Lauren’s throat tightened. She swallowed around it, palms damp. “Do you think the client—?”
“Will love it,” Vivian said, finally turning. “But even if they don’t, Muse does. We’ll feature it in February regardless.”
Sage shot a last frame, then straightened. “That’s the commercial shots out of the way. Now, let’s get a shot just for us.”
Wren pulled Lauren’s wrists, positioning her in the frame behind her piece.
Click.
Lauren felt the pride bloom inside her. She loved what she’d made. And she loved that other people would get to enjoy it too.
That was what she had felt at Christmas, too. Before Tom and his family had ruined it all.
Lauren wiped her palms on her skirt. “So… next steps?”
“Next steps,” Zoe said, “we send proofs to the client with the word ‘vibe’ used sparingly.”
“My god,” Rina said, “do not use vibe.”
Zoe winked. “I said sparingly.”
Sage angled the monitor so Lauren could see the last photo she’d taken. The one just for them.
“Oh…” Lauren whispered, taking it in. She didn’t just look proud in the photo. She looked powerful.
“Sage—” Her voice broke. She tried again. “Thanks.”
She glanced at the monitor one more time—at the glow, at the dent her fingertip had left in a letter last night, at the heart that wasn’t neat but was unmistakably hers.
She lifted her glitter-dusted hands and wiggled them, just to see them sparkle.
“Come on, artist,” Sage called without looking up. “Help me pick the hero shot.”