“Genuine curiosity on my part.”

“I don’t know.” I move to cross my arms but remember the pins and reconsider. “I could stick with Work It for . . . forever, I guess. And I like it. I’m good at it, and I’m useful. The pay is decent and I have insurance, plus it lets me do what I’d like with the show.”

“And for the show, you’re talking kittening, and now the design stuff?”

The yes is already on my tongue, but what comes out is, “Not quite.”

Ming stops pinning. “Oh?”

“For the record, I am not about to abuse”—I point to my open bedroom door and Jane in his room beyond—“certain connections. But with a new owner, we could have more opportunities. I just keep thinking about the way you all had to scramble when the owner effed with scheduling last month.”

“I remember Jane getting antsy about that. And there’s something I don’t get,” says Chloe. “Why does the one location matter so much? Aren’t there shows all over?”

“There are,” says Ming. “And some other places pay a flat rate for performers, like Meryton, though no one else pays as well. For the majority of shows, what you make depends on audience turnout. I’ve hauled myself to Queens for a crowd smaller than the performance roster. I made less than my cab fare home.”

“Ugh.” Chloe’s nose wrinkles. “That sucks.”

“That’s the hustle, baby. Unfortunately, that means spreading yourself all over the city.” She gets back to the pins. “What do you have in mind, Kitten?”

“I don’t know. But I feel like we’re a wasted resource. Think about it: You’re the most well-connected person in the scene. Everyone loves you—you could parlay that into some kind of managerial role, maybe? Or scouting new talent?”

Ming nods approvingly. “I do know the craft.”

“It’s worth thinking about. Something to give everyone more ownership. A way”—I think back to the office at Pemberley—“to take care of our own.”

On the phone screen, Chloe nods, then frowns, turning slightly from the camera. “Gales?” she calls. The deep voice of her fiancé replies with something I can’t make out before he fills the open doorway behind her.

Ming gasps as he approaches Chloe at the vanity. “Who is this thicc boi gracing the family exchange?”

Gales peers into the camera, confused, but Chloe pulls him in for a smooch on the cheek.

“Mine,” she says. “And home early.”

“That’s our cue,” I tell Ming. “Their schedules are brutal. They barely get to see one another.”

“Aw, they’re gonna do it,” Ming coos. Gales’s blue eyes threaten to bug out of his skull.

Chloe’s laughter explodes from the phone. “Ming, I swear to God, when I get to New York, we’re gonna be best friends.”