Page 158 of Impulse Control

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I didn’t answer. She didn’t make me.

We finished the review anyway. She thanked me like I’d saved her life. I hated that she might be right.

Frankie next. A voice note from her came in as I was exporting files.

“Okay, hear me out—what if the cover is like, a funeral but make it disco? Like grief but with glitter. You know?”

I stared at the waveform and felt something almost like affection tug at the corner of my exhaustion. Frankie was crazy in the best way.

I sent her three reference images and a note that said:Yes. Funeral disco. I’m on it.

Then René’s email popped up.

Bring those ten images. Not “pretty.” Not “correct.” Ten that cost you.

And tomorrow: private viewing. 19:00. Dress accordingly.

Dressaccordingly.

I didn’t know what that meant coming from him, and that terrified me more than if he’d yelled.

My phone buzzed again—Dominic.

A text this time.

Dominic:

Free tonight? I can make time. Actual time. Not “walking to court” time.

My chest tightened so hard I had to sit down.

Actual time.

The thing I never gave him.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, instincts flaring:say yes, say yes, fix it, be good.

Then my calendar flickered in my mind like a warning light. Mischa’s project. René’s ten. Tomorrow’s viewing. Noor. Frankie. The Daily. The world.

The day.

My brain reached for its favorite solution: postpone. Delay. Tomorrow.

I stared at Dominic’s name until my eyes burned.

Then, before I could be a coward, I typed:

Me:

I can do ten minutes. Real ten minutes. After dinner. I want to hear your voice.

I hit send before I could rethink, replan, or reframe.

My heart kicked hard—panic and relief tangled together.

A beat later, my phone buzzed.

Dominic:

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