The letter had been cryptic at best, pretentious at worst. "A helping hand is closer than you think," it had read, signed simply, S.G.. You’d rolled your eyes so hard they practically fell out of your skull. What was this, a Nancy Drew novel? Still, curiosity got the better of you, because apparently, you couldn’t resist a breadcrumb trail that reeked of…quite literally nothing.

That’s how you found yourself at Monet’s.

Then came the moment. A flicker of movement caught your eye as someone slid into the chair next to you. Sofia Gigante. A face you knew, though the universe never granted you the privilege of proximity—until now.

She turned toward you, her eyes flicking to your drink. “Interesting choice,” she murmured, voice honeyed but with an edge sharp enough to slice through pleasantries.

Her lips quirked, amused, but you were already losing the plot. Then, you saw it—the signet ring. It gleamed subtly against her pale skin, catching the light in a way that screamed look at me. The initials, S.G. stared back at you like a taunt. She noticed your gaze. Of course, she did. “It’s vintage,” she offered casually.

Oh, great. Your little bird was Sofia Gigante.