“No, Joaquin, I do not need another reminder that I’m overdue.”
Roxanne balanced her phone on her shoulder as she stabbed at her laptop's delete key.
“Unless you're offering to write the damn play yourself, maybe don’t call while I’m half-dressed and spiraling out.”
“I take it the pages still aren’t paging?” Joaquin said, amusement evident in his voice.
“I hate you,” she said. “Respectfully.”
The cursor blinked back at her, smug as hell. Fifteen attempts at an opening line. All garbage.
Weeks of attempting to write an El Barrio follow-up, and the pressure was suffocating. Critics were already speculating if she'd become another one-hit wonder.
She glanced at the antique clock her mother bought her. Shit.
Tonight, there was a fundraiser being held by her friend Nilah Dubois, the Broadway actress whose portrayal of Lauren in El Barrio had earned her a Tony nomination. While Roxanne wasn't fond of public events, this one would benefit several afterschool arts programs, including the East Harlem Workshop, where she'd first discovered playwriting as a teenager. At the very least, she could tolerate schmoozing with wealthy donors if it meant helping kids like her former self.
Joaquin, her agent and good friend, had an uncanny talent for contacting her at the most inopportune moments. Like right when she was trying to type out something, anything, before she headed out for the night.
"Am I catching you at a bad time, or are you avoiding me?" He responded, his voice carrying a familiar mixture of amusement and exasperation.
"Depends on which answer gets me off the phone faster." Roxanne placed him on speaker so she could order a ride and finish getting dressed. "Let me guess, you want pages."
"Is that so surprising? Because I think if that was obvious, I wouldn't have to chase after you like you owe me money." In the background, she heard the distinctive click of his vape pen, followed by an exhale. "We’re coming up on two years with El Barrio. You need to have something new ready soon if you want to capitalize."
"You know what happens when I force it," she countered, thinking of her deleted paragraphs. "Remember that disaster of a second act I sent last month?"
"Roxanne, you're one of the most brilliant playwrights I've worked with in my ten years of agenting. But genius doesn't pay the bills unless it makes deadlines." Joaquin paused. "Listen, whatever you've got, I want to read it. Even rough drafts. That's how we shaped your previous work, remember? Piece by piece."
Roxanne nibbled on her bottom lip as she considered his request and smoothed down the square-neck fitted black dress she’d bought. She put on some understated gold jewelry and removed the silk head wrap keeping her hair in place. After some styling with a leave-in conditioner, her curls fluffed up into a nice full crown. Her new hairdresser, Debbie, understood how to treat her hair texture in ways previous stylists never had.
Though money was no longer an issue, a fact that still startled her occasionally, Roxanne remained thoughtful about her expenditures. Her mother's voice still echoed in her head: "Just because you can afford something doesn't mean you need it." But Debbie's salon was one of her few indulgences she never regretted.
"I'll send you what I finished a couple of weeks ago,” she said, grabbing her clutch. “ I'm not convinced it's working, but perhaps you'll see something I don't."
"That's all I'm asking for. How about I review it and we meet for lunch on Thursday around noon at The Classic?"
Roxanne wrinkled her nose. "You know how much I dislike that place. The maître d' treats me like I'm there to clean the tables."
"Fine, what about El Sabor? I have a reservation for two on Friday, and if you behave, meaning actual pages in my inbox tonight, I could make you my plus one."
"Wow, pulling out the big guns. I hear getting a reservation there requires giving up your firstborn or something equally dramatic."
Joaquin laughed. "Yeah, something like that. So we have a deal?"
"Deal," Roxanne replied, a reluctant smile forming. "But only because I've been craving mofongo for weeks."
They disconnected just as she stepped out of her building and the black Audi she'd requested pulled up in front. She greeted the driver then inserted her earphones. Before any public appearance, she needed to center herself, and music, provided that necessary grounding.
As the cityscape blurred past her window, Roxanne's thoughts drifted back to her conversation with Joaquin. They'd met in City College freshman year, both figuring out their future in the arts. When Joaquin decided to study business and eventually became an agent, it was inevitable that they would work together. Without his persistent advocacy, her story of an Afro-Latina girl navigating 1980s East Harlem might never have reached mainstream audiences. Despite the success of works like In the Heights, producers had labeled her play "niche" and "limited in appeal" which was code for "too ethnic" and "not white enough."
Roxanne had learned early that being a Black woman meant working twice as hard for half the recognition. But her mother, Inez Cruz, had instilled in Roxanne and her siblings an unyielding determination. "No one gets to tell you who you are or what you're worth," Inez would say. Roxanne smiled at the memory, drawing strength from it as she always did before public appearances.
The car slowed to a stop at an unfamiliar apartment building. Before Roxanne could question the driver, the back door opened and a woman slid into the seat beside her.
"Excuse me," the newcomer said, settling herself.
Roxanne turned, prepared to express her surprise and annoyance at the unexpected intrusion. However, her gaze fell upon the stranger, and the words died on her lips.
The woman was breathtaking. Her rich brown skin seemed to glow under the passing streetlights. Her hair, cut into a sleek bob that accentuated her cheekbones, framed features that could only be described as ethereal. Complemented by full lips painted a deep red and dark eyes that sparkled with sharp intelligence.
After adjusting her seatbelt, the woman pulled out her phone and began texting, her fingers moving with swift precision across the screen.
Roxanne removed her earphones and leaned forward slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but who are you and why did you just get into my car?" she asked, brows furrowed.
The woman glanced up from her phone. She appeared ready to deliver a cutting response but, after appraising Roxanne with a quick sweep of her eyes, offered a disarming smile instead. "You selected the shared ride option."
Roxanne blinked, momentarily confused. "I did?" She checked her app and discovered that, distracted by thoughts of her play and conversation with Joaquin, she had indeed chosen the shared option. Warmth crept up her neck. "I apologize. I wasn't paying attention when I ordered."
The woman waved dismissively, her expression softening. "No need for apologies. It happens to everyone. I rarely use the shared option myself, but it was arriving soonest."
"No problem. I could think of worse people to ride with." Roxanne cringed internally at her awkward response. "Sorry, that came out wrong."
After placing her phone on her lap, the woman regarded her with evident amusement. "Well, we're strangers to each other. For all you know, I might be the worst company imaginable."
"Touché."
Roxanne studied her. The woman wore a burgundy cocktail dress that hugged her curves perfectly, paired with a deep red faux fur jacket.
When Roxanne's gaze returned to the woman's face, she found her watching with a raised eyebrow and that same amused expression.
"Have you finished deciding whether I might be dangerous?" she asked, her crimson lips curving into a knowing smile.
"I haven't ruled it out completely. Further investigation may be required." Roxanne extended her hand. "I'm Roxanne."
"Arabella." Her grip was firm and assured, her palm surprisingly warm against Roxanne's. "This might sound like a tired line, but I feel as though we've met before. Your face is familiar."
Roxanne hesitated. Since El Barrio had become a hit, being recognized occurred with increasing frequency. A phenomenon that still unsettled her. She disliked how interviews and appearances made people presume familiarity.
"I get that often, but no, we haven't met before tonight." Roxanne redirected the conversation. "You're clearly dressed for something special. Where are you headed this evening?"
"An event for one of my clients. I work in public relations." Arabella’s phone chimed, interrupting her; she held up one finger before answering. "Makaila, what's happening? No, absolutely not. I specifically informed catering that Yukiko has a severe shellfish allergy. Every menu item needs to be checked."
Roxanne found herself captivated by Arabella's voice. It was very much a Northeast accent, but not New York, perhaps Boston.
When she finished the call, Arabella turned back toward Roxanne.
"Sorry about the interruption. With event management there’s always something going sideways at the last minute."
Roxanne shook her head. "No apology necessary. Do you enjoy your work?"
"Oh, I love it, and I'm exceptional at what I do." She made the statement with casual confidence.
“Wow, okay,” Roxanne couldn’t help but laugh. “You seem pretty cocky.”
Arabella's smile turned slightly mischievous as she leaned back. "Is it cocky if it’s a fact?”
“I suppose not,” Roxanne admitted.
Her gaze inadvertently dropped to the gentle curve of Arabella's collarbone, then lower to the swell of her breasts. She quickly raised her eyes, embarrassed by her wandering attention, only to find Arabella watching her intently. There was no discomfort in her expression, only a spark of challenge that made Roxanne's pulse quicken.
Who was this woman?
Roxanne moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Nothing like a woman fully in touch with the divine feminine. A confident woman could quite literally take over the world if she chose.”
Arabella's eyes lingered on Roxanne's lips for a moment before she replied. "The divine feminine, huh? That's an interesting way to put it. Most people just call it arrogance when a woman knows her worth."
"Those people are usually men, or women who've internalized what men have told them," Roxanne replied, surprising herself with her candor. Something about this woman made her want to speak her mind without the usual filters.
"And what about you?" Arabella asked, turning more fully toward Roxanne. "What do you do when you're not accidentally ordering shared rides and philosophizing about feminine power?"
Roxanne hesitated. This moment, the anonymity, the freedom of being just a woman in a dress rather than Roxanne Cruz, the playwright, felt precious. "I write," she said simply, offering a partial truth.
"A writer," Arabella nodded appreciatively. "That explains the observant eyes. I've felt you cataloging every detail since I got in."
Heat rose to Roxanne's cheeks. "Occupational hazard. I people-watch."
"And what conclusions have your observations drawn about me?" Arabella's question carried a subtle challenge.
Roxanne studied her companion more deliberately now, permission granted. "You're meticulous. Everything from your bob to your nails is precision-cut. You're used to being in charge—that call showed as much. You probably grew up somewhere with money but worked hard anyway because you had something to prove." She paused, wondering if she'd gone too far. "How am I doing?"
Arabella blinked, caught off guard. “Uncomfortably accurate... especially for five minutes in a car. Maybe I should be worried about you.”
The silence crackled. Attraction pulsed between them.
The car stopped.
“This is me,” Arabella said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a business card and placed it gently in Roxanne’s hand. “In case you ever need PR help... or anything else.”
And then she was gone.
Roxanne stared after her, scent lingering in the air. She tucked the card into her clutch like something precious. She already knew she’d be googling Arabella James, Senior Publicist before bed.
Minutes later, the car rolled up in front of the gallery.
Roxanne thanked the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk, drawing in a steadying breath of cool evening air. The sleek modernist building in front of her shimmered with light—glass, metal, and money. Nilah had mentioned the venue was new, owned by some art-world heiress trying to pivot into philanthropy.
A mini red carpet stretched from curb to entrance, complete with photographers. Roxanne tried to skirt it, but one of them recognized her.
“Ms. Cruz! Over here, please!”
She froze, then pasted on the expression her mother always called her calculating-taxes face.
“For God’s sake, Roxy,” Inez had once scolded after the Tonys. “You look like you just smelled something sour, not like you won an award.”
The flashbulbs went off anyway.
“Loved El Barrio! My daughter saw it three times. Any hints about the next one?”
The question hit like a pinprick. Roxanne kept her smile in place. “Still in the works,” she said. “But thank you. That means a lot.”
After a few more flashes, she made her way inside.
The gallery was exactly what she expected. High ceilings, and abstract art, with price tags that could fund entire semesters of arts programming. Crystal light spilled across the fashionable crowd, who sipped champagne and air-kissed in curated cliques.
She scanned for Nilah and found her, resplendent in a gold jumpsuit, hair spilling down her back in a dramatic fashion only she could pull off. Her rich, brown skin had a hint of what Roxanne could only assume was glitter. A small crowd hung on her every word. Typical Nilah.
Roxanne made her way over just as Nilah finished some story that sent the group into peals of laughter.
“Roxanne!” Nilah pulled her into a warm hug. “I was starting to think you ghosted me.”
“Never for your events,” she replied, grateful for the familiar face. “You look amazing.”
Nilah twirled dramatically. “Gold is the moment, darling. And you—this dress? Liz?”
“Of course.”
Nilah nodded approvingly and plucked two champagne flutes from a passing tray. “I’ve got donors who are desperate to meet the genius behind El Barrio.” She leaned in, whispering, “One of them manages a hedge fund. His daughter wants to study theater. He’s feeling very generous tonight.”
Roxanne accepted the glass and took a long sip. She could play her part. She always did.
But as Nilah led her through the crowd, she felt it again—that flicker of something electric, still buzzing in her chest.
Arabella.
Her scent still clung faintly to her coat and her smile lingered at the edges of Roxanne’s thoughts, impossible to compartmentalize.
She hadn’t expected anyone like her tonight—or ever, really.
For now, Roxanne reminded herself, there was a role to play. One she’d written for herself. One she was still learning how to perform.
Chapter 2
Across town, Arabella James stood outside the location of her client’s fashion show, her skin still tingling from where Roxanne's fingers had brushed hers. The venue buzzed behind her, preparing for one of those high-glamour runway shows that fashion insiders obsessed over. But she needed a moment to collect herself. It didn’t help that her mind was still with the woman she’d just met.
Roxanne.
Something about those warm, intelligent eyes had stirred feelings in Arabella’s chest she thought long buried.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, snapping her back to reality. Makaila’s name flashed on the screen—three exclamation points. Arabella took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked through the venue’s grand doors. Whatever this feeling was, it would have to wait.
Inside, the elegant space resembled a war zone. Assistants darted between stations, voices rose above the pulsing music, and technicians clung to rigging, adjusting lights overhead.
“Arabella!” Makaila rushed over, clutching her iPad, headset askew. “Everything’s falling apart. Caterers are stuck in traffic, the centerpieces are wrong, and Kiyoko’s threatening to pull the collection.”
A familiar calm washed over Arabella. Crisis was where she thrived.
“Call Emilio—double his fee for a thirty-minute delivery. Use the backup black orchids.” She scanned the room. “And where’s Kiyoko?”
Makaila pointed toward a door at the far end marked Private. “Dressing room three. She won’t let anyone in.”
Arabella nodded. “Get the bar staff moving with champagne. The good stuff, not that cheaper prosecco we were saving. And dim these overhead lights—everyone looks half-dead under them.”
As Makaila hurried off, already looking less stressed, Arabella weaved through the crowd. She paused in front of Kiyoko’s collection: twelve mannequins, each draped in jewel-toned gowns. The emerald one at center stage caught the light, its beaded details shimmering like fish scales underwater.
“She’s outdone herself,” said a familiar voice.
Arabella turned to see Natalie Moore, editor of Gloss magazine, eyeing the display with approval.
“Her work gets better every season,” Arabella replied, watching Natalie’s face closely. This woman’s opinion could make or break Kiyoko’s career.
Natalie leaned in, lowering her voice. “I heard Bergdorf’s is ready to offer her an exclusive deal. Any truth to that?”
And there it was—the dance Arabella knew by heart. Information was currency. Relationships were leverage. She allowed a faint smile to curve her lips.
“You know how it is, Natalie. So many conversations happening at once.”
“Which means yes,” Natalie laughed, tapping Arabella’s arm. “You never change, do you? Always keeping everyone’s secrets.”
As Natalie walked away, a hollow feeling opened in Arabella’s chest. You never change. The words hit harder than they should have. When had being consistent—something she once prided herself on—started to feel like being stuck?
She shook off the thought and continued toward the dressing rooms. Outside room three, she paused, listening to the faint sound of someone crying. She took a breath and knocked twice before entering.
Inside, the scene was just as expected. Kiyoko Dupree—tiny, brilliant, and only twenty-eight—was curled up in a makeup chair, crying silently. Fabric swatches and sketches littered the floor like discarded dreams.
“It’s all wrong,” Kiyoko whispered without looking up. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her black jumpsuit—a nervous habit Arabella had noticed over their six months working together. “The lighting makes all the details disappear. The music doesn’t match. And now I hear the centerpieces are wrong, too.”
Instead of offering immediate reassurance, Arabella pulled up a chair and sat beside her, their knees nearly touching.
“Do you remember why you created this collection?” she asked gently.
Kiyoko’s red-rimmed eyes flicked up. “What?”
“The Emergence Collection. You told me it was inspired by your grandmother’s stories—how she came to New York with nothing and became someone extraordinary,”
Arabella said, leaning forward. “You designed these pieces for her. Not for Victor Boyd or Natalie Moore or anyone else.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Kiyoko’s face as Arabella continued. “Every designer hits technical snags before a show. We can fix the lighting. We can change the music. But your vision—that raw, honest tribute to your family’s strength—is what really matters tonight.”
Kiyoko’s breathing steadied. She wiped her eyes. “I still want the lighting fixed,” she said, her usual stubbornness returning.
Arabella laughed, relieved. “Of course. It will be. I’ve already called DEW Lighting. Their best people are on the way.”
“You always know exactly what to do,” Kiyoko sighed, standing to check herself in the mirror. “Sometimes I think you care more about my career than I do.”
The comment, meant as a compliment, hit Arabella harder than it should have. Maybe she had invested too much of her identity in work. “Your career is remarkable because your talent is. I’m just here to make sure the world sees it.”
After a few more minutes of planning and reassurance, Arabella left Kiyoko looking steadier. Outside, she leaned against the wall, taking a breath.
“Arabella! Oh, Arabella!”
Victor Boyd’s oily voice shattered the brief peace. The critic approached with his signature half-swagger, half-prowl, lips curled in a smile that never reached his eyes.
“Victor,” she greeted, straightening up. “What a nice surprise. I wasn’t sure you’d make it tonight.”
“And miss Kiyoko’s big sophomore collection? Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it.” His eyes scanned the room, calculating. “Though I must say, things seem rather... chaotic. Is everything okay with our young genius?”
His tone dripped with false concern. Arabella knew that look—Victor’s harshest reviews always followed moments of vulnerability.
“Everything’s perfect,” she said smoothly. “Just the usual pre-show energy.” She gestured toward the bar. “The 2015 Veuve Clicquot is being served. I remembered it’s your favorite.”
Victor’s brows lifted. A small victory. “How thoughtful. Perhaps I’ll have a glass before the show.”
As he walked off, Arabella exhaled slowly. Distraction—another tool in her professional kit.
Makaila appeared beside her, offering a glass of sparkling water. “Crisis handled?”
Arabella accepted it gratefully. “For now. What’s the status of our other emergencies?”
“Emilio’s team will be here in twenty with food. The centerpieces have been replaced with the black orchids, which actually look better under the new lighting. And speaking of lighting, DEW’s technicians are making final adjustments to the runway.”
“Great work.” Arabella sipped the water, scanning the transformed room. The atmosphere had shifted from chaos to anticipation—exactly as she intended.
“You look tired,” Makaila said softly. “When was the last time you took a day off?”
The question caught Arabella off guard. “I don’t need time off. I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t my question.” Makaila’s directness was something Arabella valued—though sometimes, it struck too close to home. Before she could respond, Makaila’s expression softened. “Never mind. I just worry sometimes.”
“Don’t.” Arabella forced a lightness into her voice. “Worrying is my job.”
She’d built a career on managing other people’s problems, on turning anxiety into action. It was a skill that had taken her from associate to senior publicist at Stanton & Wright PR in just five years. Her composure in chaos had become her brand—and increasingly, her only identity.
“I met someone tonight,” she said suddenly, surprising herself with the admission.
Makaila’s eyes lit up. “When?”
“In the car ride. There was something about her. A quality I can’t quite describe.”
“Tell me everything,” Makaila urged with genuine curiosity. “Was she pretty? Interesting? Please don’t tell me she was another publicist.”
Arabella laughed despite herself. “She was... luminous. Thoughtful. Weirdly familiar, though I couldn’t place why.”
“Luminous? That’s more poetic than I’ve ever heard you be about anything that isn’t a press release.”
Arabella rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Her name is Roxanne. We shared a cab for maybe ten minutes and talked a little. She’s a writer, and she was headed to some fancy event. It was nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t make you smile like that.” Makaila tapped her chin. “Roxanne… a writer, dressed well, going to an event… Wait—could it be Roxanne Cruz? The playwright? El Barrio swept the Tonys last year.”
The realization struck Arabella hard. Of course. She had seen El Barrio during its debut run and cried through half of it—a raw, searing portrayal of an Afro-Latina girl coming of age in 1980s East Harlem.
“That’s why she seemed familiar,” Arabella murmured, the memories rushing back. “I saw her play twice. It was powerful—honest and vulnerable.” A blush crept into her cheeks. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her.”
“Maybe you were distracted by her other qualities,” Makaila teased with a knowing grin. “Did you get her number?”
Before Arabella could answer, the overhead lights dimmed and shifted. A soft, golden hue bathed the runway. Music pulsed through the speakers—Kiyoko’s carefully chosen soundtrack.
“Showtime,” Arabella said. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
As she took her place near the runway entrance, Arabella allowed herself one last thought about Roxanne—those warm eyes, that quiet spark—before snapping fully into professional mode.
The first model emerged, graceful and otherworldly in Kiyoko’s emerald gown. The crowd hushed, followed by a flurry of camera clicks and appreciative murmurs. Even from her vantage point, Arabella saw Victor Boyd lean forward, face composed but eyes gleaming with interest.
For twenty minutes, Arabella watched Kiyoko’s vision unfold, each look telling part of a larger story about transformation. Pride swelled in her chest, momentarily silencing the hollow ache that often lived there.
When the final model exited and Kiyoko took her bow, the applause was immediate and sincere. Her face glowed with triumph as she waved to the crowd.
“You did it,” Arabella corrected gently, returning the hug. “This is your moment.”
As champagne flowed and congratulations poured in, Arabella slowly stepped back from the center of it all. She watched Makaila usher editors toward Kiyoko and photographers snap pictures of the young designer beside her collection.
And then it came—the familiar emptiness that followed success. When the crisis was over and the spotlight pointed elsewhere, Arabella felt the most lost. Her purpose had been fulfilled, for now.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Expecting another client fire to put out, she glanced down and saw a notification from a news app: Playwright Roxanne Cruz Attends Whitman Gallery Fundraiser Amid Rumors of New Production.
Arabella’s finger hovered over the headline, a small smile tugging at her lips. The universe wasn’t being subtle at all.
Before she could open the article, Makaila reappeared, iPad in hand. “So,” she said, eyes bright with amusement, “about this playwright…”
Arabella tucked the phone into her pocket. “About the after-party,” she said, redirecting smoothly. “I think it’s time we moved to the rooftop lounge as planned.”
Makaila gave her a look but nodded, dutifully tapping on her screen. “Of course. The night is still young. But don’t think we won’t return to this conversation.”
As they began shepherding the crowd upstairs, Arabella allowed herself a quiet thought—maybe, just maybe, Roxanne Cruz was somewhere across the city, thinking about her too.
She smiled at the possibility and followed Makaila up the stairs.
