"This production is canceled." I say calmly but loud enough.

  The room goes silent. Dead, complete silence.

  I stand up and leave my camera on the table.

  Henry laughs in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me? Do you want to get sued?"

  I straighten my shoulders. "You’re creating a hostile work environment."

  He looks at me, amused—like I’m a little puppy picking a fight. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m the owner of the studio,” I say. “And I’m calling it off.”

  Henry turns his back on me, arms extended towards his stuff, and condescending smile. “Keep working, nothing’s canc—

  “The shoot is canceled,” I cut in, slicing straight through his act.”What part don't you understand?”

  His head whips in my direction, face full of disgust. He takes big steps towards me, index finger up, voice deep and threatening. "You will finish this production or —"

  “What?” Dean is suddenly there, stepping between us. “You’ll do what?” He crosses his arms, jaw clenched—easily a head taller. There’s a second of tension.

  Then Dean turns to everyone. “Let’s wrap it up, girls. Everyone take a breather. We’ll talk later.”

  Henry’s features contort with rage.

  Dean’s voice is calm, measured — clearly trying to cool things down — and it only seems to make Henry angrier.

  His eyes flick to my laptop — Mia’s pictures still glowing on the screen — and in one sharp motion he hurls it to the floor.

  The impact shatters the screen into spiderweb cracks, plastic fragments skittering across the room like shrapnel.

  No one moves. Every girl stands frozen, eyes locked on him.

  He’s heavy breathing, red, and swallowed like a toad. “Useless,” he mutters. “All of you.” And he storms out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattle.

  I notice my palms are sweating. I look around the room — The girls start to move and whisper to each other. Like a painting that is slowly coming to life.

  I clear my throat, my voice steadier than I feel. “Hey. I’m really sorry this happened today.” I catch Mia wiping her face. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “You don’t deserve to be spoken to like that. Not here. Not anywhere.”

  I gesture vaguely around the studio. “We’re done for today. Take care of yourselves.” Then pick up my destroyed laptop from the floor.

  They start to slowly grab their things, texting on their phones or calling someone—probably their agencies.

  When everyone leaves, I turn to Dean, who’s coiling cables with unusual focus. "I was scared for a second there," I admit. “Thanks for having my back.”

  He smirks. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

  "Are you John Wick or something?" I say mockingly.

  Dean strikes an exaggerated martial arts pose. "I'm a yellow belt in taekwondo—basically a trained assassin." Despite everything, we laugh.

  Then reality sets in. "Guys, I'm sorry. We're going to have to return their deposit, and I hope this doesn't have legal repercussions."

  “I respect your decision but, what happened?” I hear a hint of worry in Jess’ voice.

  I fill them in on all the micro aggressions he has been doing during the day—”And then finally he screamed at the assistant for the jeans, called the model fat, made her cry. Like…how can we go back to the same vibe after that?”

  Dean raises his eyebrows. “The way he screamed at the assistant, brutal.”

  "Well," Jessie says firmly. "I like that our studio stands for what's right.—a second of doubt—but, do we have to give the deposit back?”

  "If I canceled the shoot, and I don't give him the money—"

  “What about the computer?” she cuts me off “It’s the studio’s computer.”

  “I can cover the computer for now. Let’s focus on the Vain project, and hope this doesn’t bring any repercussions before that?” I finish with more of a question than a statement.

  Dean sits in a chair. "Yeah, that guy was the worst. I'm proud of what you did. And I don't really need the money, so..." He shrugs. "If there are legal repercussions, we'll figure it out."

  Jessie and I exchange confused glances.

  "Yeah," I say slowly. "We'll be fine."

  We spend the next hour methodically packing away equipment, coiling cables, and folding backdrops. The studio feels hollow without the energy of the shoot, just the three of us moving around each other in familiar rhythms. My phone buzzes against the table.

  Lucia:Ey, let's go eat somewhere?

  I smile at my screen. This is exactly what I need right now.

  Me:There's this place called Buenos Aires.

  Lucia:I'm already interested.

  Lucia: I hate American food.

  Lucia: A qué hora? (At what time?)

  Me:7:30?

  Lucia:ee you there.

  "Girl, what got you smiling like that?" Jessie asks, noticing me happy about my date.

  "I'll have dinner with an old friend from Argentina. I'm super excited."

  Dean carries a pile of things that are barely steady with both arms to take upstairs, “Is she cute?”

  I smile, “Lucia would eat your heart and spit it.”

  He laughs. “Just the way I like it”

  “What about Daniel?” says Jessie snatching a mug before it falls from Dean’s pile.

  I smile with teeth. “Yeah, I’m also super excited to avoid that.” I move my hand like if there’s an annoying fly “He’ll probably at work already when I get back”

  "Sometimes avoiding things is the right call." Dean’s already going up the stairs.

  "Spoken like a true commitment-phobe," Jess follows with the mug.

  Dean grins. "Hey, it's worked out great for me so far."

  Jess rolls her eyes, “Said the loneliest men alive”

  I finish cleaning the computer pieces from the floor and go back to my desk to finish pending work. We have some deadlines coming next week, and a very good reputation of delivering our work on time. And we like to keep it that way.

  Around four, Dean grabs his things. "Guys, I'm heading out. I finished all of my projects. Just need to polish some things. Will be ready for Monday."

  Jessie and I nod.

  "Okaay," I say to confirm "See you on Monday."

  "Byee" Jessie chants, waving her hand.

  As soon as he closes the door, both of us turn our chairs facing each other.

  "Did he say he didn’t need money?" I whisper loudly. I can just repeat the same question that has been popping up in my mind since Dean, all relaxed, expressed his lack of concern about money.

  Jessie nods frenetically. "This is weird, why would he get out of his way to say he doesn't need any money, if he needs it?"

  "I'm baffled. Maybe ask his cousin if everything is better now?" I suggest. He’s been weirdly distracted lately. But not money wise worried.

  "Okay, done." She says, "let's see."

  We go back to our work but after a couple of minutes she calls me. "Emm, she replied."

  "And? What?"

  She reads out loud, "Could you maybe help me out with like $50? Don't tell Dean, he worries too much"

  "I don't know, this is weird Jess."

  Jessie is just looking at her phone with this baffled expression "Who asks money from strangers like this?"

  "Let's just talk to him on Monday?"

  She nods. "Let's talk with him on Monday."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Another hour passed by, and Jessie starts to collect her stuff. "I'm taking off,"

  "Okay, besos cutie," I reply. (Kisses)

  She taps my head on the way to the stairs. "See you on Monday."

  I stay an hour more, making time to go to meet Lucia. Once out I stare at the sky and take a deep breath. Friday evening is settling into that perfect twilight hour, the sky a soft gradient from pale blue to deep purple, with the first stars just beginning to pierce through the city glow.

  I get out of the car on MacDougal Street with my earphones in, making everything feel cinematic—the warm light spilling from the window shops, the way people move past me, even the way the wind catches my hair. Main character syndrome much?

  I find Buenos Aires tucked between a vintage bookstore and a wine bar. I can already see people inside chatting and laughing in what seems to be a little piece of Argentina somehow cut out and glued in here. The walls are covered in vintage tango posters and black-and-white photos of Buenos Aires neighborhoods. Even from the sidewalk, I can smell the familiar scents of chimichurri and grilled meat that made my chest tight with homesickness.

  Inside, the space is intimate and loud in that particularly Argentine way—conversations overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the soft strum of a guitar from hidden speakers. Red checkered tablecloths, exposed brick walls, and the kind of lighting that made everyone look like they were in an old movie.

  I spot Lucia immediately at a corner table. Her long wavy dark brown hair catching the warm restaurant light as she gestures dramatically with her hands, already deep in conversation with the waiter. She looks exactly like herself—those strong, expressive eyebrows, the way she holds her head like she is perpetually evaluating everything around her. She wears gold jewelry that catches the light when she moves, and has that effortless but intentional style.

  "?Emma!" She stands up and pulls me into a fierce hug that smells like cigarettes and some expensive perfume I can’t identify. "?Mirá esta cara yankee! You look so... American." (Look at that yankee face)

  I laugh, settling into the chair across from her. "What does that even mean?"

  "I don't know, but it's true." She is already pouring some wine for me from a bottle she'd ordered before I arrived, her rings clinking against the glass. "You look like you know what you are doing."

  I smile, "Well, I do know some things."

  "So, tell me everything," Lucia says, leaning forward with that hungry look she gets when she wants gossip. "Are you seeing anyone? Please tell me you're not still single in this city full of potential."

  I immediately thought about the fact that Daniel hasn’t texted me yet. With that knot in my stomach, I smile and pull out my phone, showing her my lock screen—a photo of Daniel and me from a few months ago, both of us leaning into each other, genuinely smiling. "This is Daniel. We've been together for over three years."

  "Ay, qué lindo," she says, studying the photo. "He's handsome. What does he do?" (So cute)

  I blink. "He works at a bar."

  "A bar?" Her face falls slightly. "What a loser, sorry." She hands my phone back laughing. "He’s paying for a New York apartment on a bartender’s salary?"

  I shake my head. "I own the apartment."

  "Please don’t tell me you’re out here supporting a grown man.” She says in disbelief.

  I smile awkwardly. “Well, he pays for his stuff, and cooks!”

  She pouts. “Oh. What a big boy”

  I laugh, “Sorry, I was too busy working to go on hunt.”

  She chuckles “I prefer to be single than maintain a man. In this political weather? Ni a palos. They don’t deserve it, and don’t know if they ever will.”

  “But Daniel it’s not like that. You’ll meet him, he’s a good guy.”

  She gags dramatically, like she’s about to throw up, “Good guys are the worst. They don’t make the jokes, they just laugh it off.” She takes a sip of her wine. “They don’t cheat on their girlfriends, but they congratulate the friends that do and get away with it.”

  That last one hit too close to home. "I'm not charging Daniel rent because I think that love is not a contract, right?"

  "I don't know about anymore. I think that is just commercial shit for us to fall for all these pathetic, lust driven, medium to low income, and just overall below average men. But the reality is that they use us, we are commodities. And I'm not gonna keep lying to myself that I'm falling in love, when I feel more like a product they’re paying for.”

  I remember us, laying on the grass, talking about the boy we liked. I told her that Emilio held my hand at the school break, and we giggled and rolled, everything was butterflies. But Disney world got real now, and while the prince is asking Cinderella to share expenses now that she moved to the castle, she’s thinking if she could sell those crystal slippers and go live far away. On a beach somewhere.

  "It is infuriating how different we see the world sometimes.”

  “I’m tired of working on myself to be the perfect girl for a guy that probably would cheat on me with Sister Tung.”

  We laugh.

  "Emma, I'm not settling for less than someone who can give me a good life. Why should I?" She looks at me like I’m being naive. "We have to accept reality. You should get someone who takes care of you, not the other way around. Their lives are easy enough."

  I shrug, "I guess." The waiter appears, saving me from having to respond more than that.

  After analyzing the menu I order a quinoa bowl with roasted vegetables, and two empanadas—caprese and humita. While Lucia asks for a small arugula salad with jamón crudo.

  "What happened with the milanesa?" I ask.

  "I'm doing tons of photoshoots now," she says, patting her flat stomach. "Can't let myself go like that. Speaking of which, are you exercising?"

  "As if," I laugh.

  "Yeah. It shows," she says with a teasing face, then immediately follows with, "?Es joda! I'm joking. Don’t pay attention to me, you’re gorge." (It's a joke)

  I shake my head smiling, she’ll never change. "So, what's this agency that called you?" I ask.

  Her face lit up. "The Lions Management! It's so exclusive, so hard to get in, but they loved me. I'm going to be huge, Emma. Like, international campaigns huge."

  "That's amazing. So, are you staying here for good?"

  "Apparently yes! They are paying for my accommodations and doing the trials." She pinches a piece of bread and mid way to her mouth abandons it on her plate. "What about you? Still doing your photography thing? Is it going well?"

  "It's going really well, actually. We are doing small campaigns for now but we are working a lot." I think about sharing the Vain shoot, but for some reason I hold it.

  "This morning we had a photoshoot that was a disaster"

  That seems to catch her attention. "Disaster? Like what?"

  I explain the train of comments and the escalating violence Henry displayed on The Studio in the morning. The girls crying, my laptop flying to the floor, Dean defending us. And I’m ready for the empathy and outrage. It's a hard industry, I mean, she’s also part of this.

  Instead, she laughs. "To be honest, sometimes they hire the most insane looking people. I get all the inclusivity stuff, but damn, do you need someone with such a big tooth gap?"

  I half-smiled, uncomfortable. "But he was being so misogynistic, calling the women—"

  "Yeah, but also, who cares?" Lucia waves her hand dismissively. "It's just business. This is the industry. Again, we are a product. You can't take everything so personally." She finishes the rest of her glass and pours a bit more.

  The silence settles down for a bit too long.

  "Ay, perdón, I'm being a bitch. It's just this industry, you know? It makes you so cynical." Her voice softens. "Tell me about your coworkers, someone hot?" Lucia is the duality between hating men, and still being attracted to them personified. (Sorry)

  I think about it for one second "I mean, Dean is pretty hot—”

  "Dean? Picture!—or you claimed him already?"

  "I told you I have a boyfriend, Lucia! Can you keep up with the conversation, please?" I say playfully.

  "You can say it if it's yours! Don't play saint with me!" she’s smirking.

  I just roll my eyes, and show her a picture of the three of us. "Here—Dean, me, and Jessie."

  "Woah, he handsome. Can he pay my rent? Show me his insta."

  I throw my head back and laugh. “Pay your rent. I just told you, our Studio is not taking off yet.” I take a sip of my wine. “But his family is kind of rich—” I don't know why I had to add that.

  "Introduce us! I can wait for The Studio to take off if we have mom and dad to help." She says mischievously.

  I raise my eyebrows, "First of all, chill. I am no cupido. And second, what about your agency? Don’t they have a bunch of hot, rich boys in the industry?”

  She makes the vomit face again. “I can’t date models. You don’t know what it's like to date a guy in the industry. It’s so performative, I feel like I’m a contestant in the bachelorette on every date.”

  She grabs my hands and looks me in the eyes, “What are your dreams and hopes for the future?” making a deep voice and a masculine grin.

  I laugh. “That sounds kind of charming.”

  “No! Emma! It’s an act.”

  Our food arrives at the table. We move around things to help the waiter unload all the content of his tray.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s the boyfriend act. They carry on for a couple of dates until they fuck you and move to the next.”

  “What? That’s so cruel!”

  “Emma, it’s brutal out there. Hard to know what’s real.”

  I start to focus on my food instead of falling in the rabbit hole of how my life without Daniel would be. The quinoa bowl and empanadas are perfect—exactly the kind of comfort food I need.

  I bite one of the empanadas—humita. Creamy corn, and soft white sauce filling, with just a hint of nutmeg, heaven. But Lucia picks at her greens like it’s medicine.

  "Estas empanadas están buenísimas" I say closing my eyes. (This empanadas are amazing)

  She laughs. “I was just thinking — I’m kind of glad you didn’t speak Spanish all night.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. “What do you mean?”

  “Your accent,” she says lightly. “It’s… weird now. Like an Argentinean try-hard” She chuckles at her own joke.

  I just take another bite into my empanada, and decide not to use my Spanish anymore.

  "?Te estoy jodiendo!" She laughs. "But seriously, you sound so... American." (I'm fucking with you)

  I crown the night by ordering a flan with dulce de leche and cream. Because I deserve it! And Lucia is telling me how envious she is that I can ' like this.

  I lift my spoon with a jiggly piece of flan, “Well, I’m celebrating I don’t live out of my physical appearance. Cheers!” The firm yet melting texture of this flan is something worth to be studied. The light whipped cream, mixing with the caramel deep notes of the dulce de leche. I emphasize my pleasant experience with an “Mmhhhh…”

  She ‘fuck you’ me, and I smile romantically. Yes, this is how our relationship has always been.

  Waiting for the check she says "Hey, I'm going out with some girls from the agency tonight— you should come! They're all so fun, very international crowd."

  I start to consider it, but then I can feel the beginning of an episode knocking on the door. It is a soft muffled tick tock, but suddenly the idea of performing around a bunch of models, makes my anxiety spike.

  "I think I'm gonna pass tonight. But maybe next time?"

  We get out and she lights up a cigarette while promising to see each other again soon. Her car stops and we finally say goodbye with a kiss on cheek and a quick hug.

  I watch as her car mixes with traffic. I stay there frozen for a bit. I look up, looking for stars without knowing why. Maybe the sight of one can give me some kind of signal, or just beauty comfort. Anyways, it’s clouded tonight.

  In the car I’m reminiscing about the food—those familiar flavors that tasted like home. Lucia also felt familiar, our dynamic it’s still there, intact. It just has a more adult context. I wonder if that would make her more grounded or more volatile.

  I remember one afternoon. We went to my house after school. My mom had left on my bed a bunch of new headbands — bright plastic ones, stacked together like candy. I sat on my dresser super excited, trying them on.

  Lucía said they were so pretty, and that they looked good on me. She asked if she could try one on. But I’m an only child, and I have problems sharing, so I said ‘sorry, but no’ without even thinking about it.

  I remember her face, a smile of disbelief. “En serio, no?” she asked. I shrugged and said that I don’t like to share.

  She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She just stared at me for a second, picked up the pile, and snapped every single one in half.

  she said, dropping the last pieces to the floor.

  I remember the sound more than anything — the sharp cracking, one after the other.

  I started crying and screaming pointing at her. It was this whole debacle in the families. Lucia’s mom ended up buying headbands for both of us, made her say sorry for breaking mine, and made me say sorry for not sharing. Which I see is not healthy. I got better at that. But that day I learned how unpredictable she can be.

  I arrive home and the apartment is dark, but Greta and Alfonso come running to greet me with their little cat sounds. I serve some food in their bowl and they start eating like choreographed.

  I kick off my shoes and pad to the bathroom because I need hot water falling on my head right now. The shower feels like washing off more than just the day—steam rising around me, the heat caressing my shoulders and neck. I take my time, massage my head, exfoliate my body.

  Afterward, I moisturize and wrap myself in my softest robe and settle onto the couch to pick something to watch.

  Out of nowhere I get this feeling of calmness, like everything’s perfect in this exact moment. The empty apartment doesn’t feel lonely, it feels whole.

  Greta appears taking little fast steps, and climbs onto my lap. She starts to purr as soon as I scratch between her ears. Alfonso stretches out along the back of the couch, his black fur is warm against my neck. I get comfy and press play to a movie about a detective, and that's the last thing I remember of Friday.