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She Was Invisible at the Charity Gala — Until the Mafia Boss's Jealousy Made
Every Man Leave

The navy blue dress hangs on the back of my bedroom door like a question mark I'm not sure I want to answer. It's the only remotely formal thing I own—bought on clearance three years ago for a job interview I didn't get—and even then, it had felt like an extravagance I couldn't afford.
Tonight, it's my armor for a world I don't belong to.
I check my phone for the third time in ten minutes. The text from my best friend Vanessa still glows on the screen: "Elena, PLEASE come tonight. I need you there. This gala means everything for the foundation. You promised."
I did promise. Six months ago, when Vanessa first got the job coordinating the annual Children's Hospital Charity Gala, back when it seemed like a distant, hypothetical event. Back before my landlord raised my rent, before my car needed eight hundred dollars in repairs, before the universe reminded me that women like me—twenty-eight, waitressing to pay off student loans from a nursing degree I never finished—don't attend galas.
We serve drinks at them.
My studio apartment in Queens is exactly four hundred and twenty square feet of carefully managed poverty. Every item serves multiple purposes. The coffee table doubles as my dining table and desk. The futon converts from couch to bed. The vintage dress form in the corner isn't decoration—it's where I practice the alterations I do on the side for extra cash.
I've gotten good at making things look better than they are. Including myself.
The dress still fits, which feels like a small miracle given my diet lately has consisted primarily of whatever doesn't get ordered at the restaurant. I zip it up, studying my reflection in the mirror I rescued from someone's curb three years ago. The dress is simple, modest—a high neckline, three-quarter sleeves, hem that falls just below my knees. It's the kind of dress that says "I'm here but please don't look at me too closely."
Which is exactly what I'm going for.
My dark hair, which I normally keep in a practical ponytail for work, hangs in waves around my shoulders—the result of sleeping in braids last night because I can't afford a curling iron that actually works. I apply the drugstore makeup I've learned to use strategically: concealer for the shadows under my eyes that come from working double shifts, mascara to make my brown eyes look less tired than they feel, lipstick in a shade called "Pink Perseverance" that I'm choosing to take as a sign.