I untie the robe. Let it slide down my arms like a curtain rising.
I don’t answer right away. I look at the woman in the mirror—the one with the sharp cheekbones and the quiet fire behind her irises. She’s won every war she’s ever fought. She’ll win this one, too.
I stand up, barefoot, and walk toward the door. The floor is cold, but I don’t shiver. I open it. The lights are blinding. The room holds its breath.
“Ready when you are, Gianna.”
The crew is shuffling outside, cables snaking across the floor like lazy pythons. I hear the director’s muffled voice, the low chuckle of the sound guy. To them, I’m the blueprint. The fantasy they’re about to capture. But in these five minutes alone, before they call “action,” I’m just a girl from Arizona who learned that power isn’t about taking your clothes off. It’s about deciding when you do.