Lin plucked an edamame pod from the takeout container with the precision of a surgeon extracting a bullet. "Let me get this straight—a gorgeous billionaire monk who *literally* worships the ground you paint on proposed to you, and your response was to ghost him like a Tinder date?" She flicked the pod at Syra's forehead. "Are you *trying* to get canceled by the universe?"
Jia calmly intercepted the next airborne edamame with her chopsticks. "To be fair, our girl's romantic resume reads like a cautionary tale set to a Taylor Swift soundtrack." She tilted her head. "Which track best describes your ex? 'All Too Well' or 'We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together'?"
Syra groaned into her hands. "I hate you both."
"Lies." Lin uncorked a wine bottle with her teeth. "You love us more than your favorite sable brush." She poured three generous glasses, sloshing merlot onto Syra's drafting table. "Now drink up so we can stage Act Two of this intervention—where Jia stalks Lou's financials while I drunk-text him your childhood photos."
Jia sniffed. "I already ran his financials. The man donates 78% of his income to girls' education initiatives in rural China." She slid a dossier across the table. "Also, his grandmother owns the largest private collection of Song dynasty ceramics in Asia."
Syra gaped at the embossed report. "When did you—"
"Tuesday." Jia adjusted her diamond cufflinks. "After you ignored my seventeen consecutive calls."
Lin draped herself across Syra's shoulders like a human stole. "Face it, Picasso. Your monk's a saint with a six-pack who buys buildings just to watch you paint." She pressed the wineglass into Syra's trembling hand. "The only red flag here is your refusal to admit you're crazy about him."
The silence stretched. Somewhere outside, a car alarm wailed like a wounded animal.
Jia arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Shall I have my team draft the prenup?"
Syra choked on her wine.
Lin pounded her back with unnecessary force. "That's the spirit! Now let's—" Her phone buzzed. "Oh hell yes. Hot Bodhisattva just liked my Instagram story from 2017." She squinted at the screen. "Wait. Does this man follow every account tagged #SyraAlizadeh? Because—"
Syra snatched the phone. Lou's profile stared back—his last post a single black-and-white photo of her studio window at dawn, captioned only with a lychee emoji. Dated yesterday.
Her ribs ached.
Jia sighed. "Give the man a crumb of hope, Syra. Even martyrs get feast days."
Lin stole back her phone, grinning. "I'm texting him your Starbucks order. And your bra size. And that embarrassing story about the time you—"
The pillow hit her face with a satisfying thwump.
Lin was still cackling, her nose buried in her phone, when Jia stood and clapped once like a general marshaling troops. "Operation Makeover begins now. Up, Picasso."
"I'm not going," Syra mumbled into her wineglass. "I have deadlines. A mural. An existential crisis to spiral into."
Jia tugged her upright with practiced ease. "And yet here you are, spiraling in your pajamas at three p.m. on a Thursday. Unacceptable. I booked us a fitting at White Lotus Atelier. We're reintroducing you to structured waistlines."
Syra resisted. "My oversized hoodie is structured."
Lin shot her a look. "Structured like a tent."
"I like tents," Syra muttered.
"We know." Jia held up a pair of Syra's old sketch leggings with the kind of disdain usually reserved for expired yogurt. "But you're not hiding in one today. You're coming, and you're dressing like you accidentally know you're beautiful."
---
It was supposed to be a quick trip. One boutique. One outfit. Minimal trauma.
It spiraled.
Three boutiques, two matcha lattes, one eyebrow-threading ambush, and half a dozen unsolicited compliments later, Syra stood in front of the changing room mirror blinking at her reflection like she didn't recognize herself. The cropped cream wrap blouse cinched at her waist with a silk tie, hinting at the curve of her hips above tailored wide-leg trousers that made her legs look like they went on for days. Her curls had been coaxed into lazy waves, and her lips—traitors—were tinted a shade of flushed rose.
"You look like an heiress escaping her security detail," Lin said, half-proud, half-envious. "If Lou doesn't propose again on sight, I will."
Syra tugged self-consciously at her blouse. "This feels... illegal."
"Because you've committed murder," Jia said serenely, snapping a photo. "Of our expectations. And possibly Lou's emotional stability."
"I can't wear this," Syra whispered.
Lin looped an arm through hers. "You already are."
Outside the boutique, as they stepped into the golden wash of early evening light, Syra caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shop window. For a split second, she stood a little straighter. A little braver.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Still painting at dawn?
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Jia peeked over her shoulder. "Crumb of hope, Syra."
Lin grinned. "Feast day, baby."
And without warning, they dragged her into the next store. For shoes.
Twenty minutes later, Lin was balancing dangerously on five-inch stilettos, strutting down the store aisle like it was Milan Fashion Week.
"I call these my 'come ruin my life' heels," she announced, doing an exaggerated hair flip that nearly knocked over a display of clutches.
Jia, seated primly on a velvet bench in classic black loafers, sipped her third espresso. "You'd sprain an ankle before any life-ruining commenced."
"I don't need that kind of negativity," Lin said, wobbling only slightly as she turned. "These shoes scream 'main character.'"
"They scream orthopedic surgery," Jia replied, adjusting the cuffs of her immaculate linen blazer. "Also, your balance is a public hazard."
Syra leaned on a rack of kitten heels, laughing helplessly. "Why are you both like this?"
"Because someone has to supply chaos," Lin said, kicking off the heels dramatically and grabbing a sequined fanny pack. "And someone else has to kill joy with spreadsheets."
"Spreadsheets ensure joy is sustainably funded," Jia said with icy precision.
Lin clutched the fanny pack to her chest. "I bet you file your taxes for fun."
"I do," Jia said. "Quarterly."
Syra snorted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
They eventually compromised: Lin bought shoes she could barely walk in, Jia picked out a sensible pair Syra secretly liked but would never admit to, and Syra walked out carrying a glittery clutch shaped like a koi fish because, according to Lin, "Whimsy is essential to emotional healing."
They finished the evening at a tiny rooftop bistro where Lin ordered three desserts "for balance," Jia interrogated the waiter about the sourcing of the saffron, and Syra—finally, briefly—forgot how much she'd been running from.
When the laughter died down and their plates were licked clean, Syra looked at her friends—one absurd, one terrifying, both loyal to the bone—and said, "Thank you."
Lin raised her martini. "To chaos, order, and the human disaster in between."
Jia clinked glasses. "That's you, in case that wasn't clear."
Syra just smiled.
And for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like hiding.