The video was playing again.
Her runway walk from two nights ago. The moment she stepped out, owning the room in that dress Spencer designed.
Monica stood in front of the TV, frozen.
The crowd’s reaction. The flashes. The way she carried herself—like she was still a pro in the game.
She didn’t recognize the girl on the screen.
That girl looked strong.
Untouchable.
But standing here now, in a quiet hotel room with her phone lighting up every five minutes, Monica didn’t feel like her. Everything felt like pressed down on her chest.
She picked up the remote and turned down the volume. The video kept playing. Looping. The camera caught her eyes at one point—cold, focused, fierce.
It made her chest ache.
She sat on the bed slowly, her phone beside her.
The message from earlier still sat there.
“Your mother wants to meet you. The real one. Tomorrow. Gardenia Towers. 3PM.”
Her real mother.
She’d always wondered. Brenda never gave her answers. She didn't even know who to ask.
Now this.
Monic
