The Touch of Another

Eloise

I dabbed a drop of foundation beneath my eyes, smudging it in with trembling fingers. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked composed enough, hair swept into a loose bun, a silk sage blouse tucked into black wide-leg trousers. But under the surface, my veins pulsed with raw dread.

Mike’s text had come that morning. Small PR dinner. Just you, me, and a potential consultant ally. Think of it as therapy with wine.

I didn’t want wine. I didn’t want therapy. I wanted peace and silence. A night without strategising my survival or rehearsing polite lies to hide my fractures.

But here I was, stepping...