NightCourtFayrie: I am in awe. It is perfection.

BookWorm151: It’s the wallpaper for me.

I grinned, nodding at the wallpaper comment. That one I was particularly proud of. I’d sketched matching thrones with silver silhouettes of a winged king next to his queen on midnight blue matte paper. The room, which was for a friend of my cousin, looked like I’d conjured it right out of the pages of the book. The reading nook I’d done in the colors of the Spring Court with bright pinks, yellows and greens. That corner of the room bled into the Night Court theme, which was done in deep blue, slate and silver. Light to darkness. I’d even thrifted an amazing Chesterfield armchair at a swap meet and ended up upholstering it myself in floral fabric with hints of gold that looked perfect next to a small, brushed metal table. Little details like that were what made my renovations so popular with clients. I took their passion for their favorite books very seriously, because I was the same way. I knew what it was like to find refuge in a book. To have every emotion pulled out of me by a story. I knew there were books that could touch something inside you like nothing else could. It was something so magical you wanted to be surrounded by it. Which was why when a client trusted me with a design, I made sure to give them their bookish haven.

“Okay, not to brag,” I told my reflection in the elevator. “I’m a fucking genius.”

I made myself believe that. For three years I’d been living on five hours of sleep and wrangling more than any person should. Three demanding jobs, finishing grad school, and helping my mom deal with the debt she’d been repaying for the last decade. But I had stayed focused, saved, planned, strategized. All on my own, every step of the way.

As the elevator pinged I took one more deep breath. I opened my eyes on the exhale and stared at myself in the spotless mirror. Kelly green pantsuit, white T-shirt, vintage-style wire frame glasses, and my brand-new white Adidas—because this man had me running all over the five boroughs, and I was not doing it in three-inch stilettos. I turned around so I could see myself from the side: yep, chin-length curls popping, hoops dangling in my ears, face beat perfect. It was now or never. I tapped on my Alba La Jefa playlist and blasted “Money” by Cardi B into my AirPods for an extra pep in my step.