Olivia leaned against her kitchen counter, phone balanced between her shoulder and ear as she furiously whisked batter in a bowl. The warm smell of butter and vanilla filled the small studio apartment, but her irritation dampened any comfort it might have provided.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because nothing screams ‘priorities’ like dropping my actual job to make polite conversation with people who don’t even know my name.”

Her mother’s icy tone crackled through the receiver, sharp and clipped. “Olivia, it’s about appearances. You should care more about the family and less about your little... art projects.”

Olivia’s whisk froze mid-stir, her jaw tightening. She forced a smile that no one could see. “Right. My ‘little art projects’ that pay my rent and keep food on my table. Totally insignificant.”

“Stop being childish,” her mother snapped, her words curt and unforgiving. “You’ll come to the gala, dressed properly, or don’t bother showing up at all.”

The line clicked dead before Olivia could respond. She let out a frustrated groan, tossing her phone onto the counter with a clatter. Gripping the edge of the counter, she stared into the batter, trying to wrestle her temper back under control.

“I’m ‘childish,’” she muttered, resuming her whisking with renewed vigor. “Right. Because wanting to live my own life is so immature.”

The batter thickened under her aggressive stirring as she imagined a world where she could finally say everything she wanted to. It didn’t solve anything, but it felt good. For now, that was enough.