She has painted nails for nine years. His face got the ten thousand followers. Her back screamed through the Chen bridal set and she finished every blossom anyway.

Page 6

At nine-fifteen the front door chimes. Patricia Cole is wearing a navy blazer and the same flat-soled shoes from the expo stage. The UV wand is in her bag. She does not take it out.

"I have nine names," she says. "Nail techs in five states. Three already have NMC numbers. Two signed away their gel formulas to shop owners they trusted. They want to talk to a tenant attorney who has done this work."

She slides a card across the desk. A name and a number. Helen Park. Bay Area code.

"Friday at eleven," she says. "She does a free intake. Three questions: who is named on the lease, who registered the LLC, who owns the formula in the registry. Then you listen."

I copy the appointment onto the back of two practice tips, in pencil, in the smallest hand I have. I put one tip in the drawer with the handpiece. I put the other in the inside pocket of my purse.

Patricia finishes her tea. At the door she stops. "On Saturday I read out a registry number on a stage. I will read out a name when you tell me you are ready. Not before."

She leaves.

At nine forty-eight Marco comes through the back with a tray of cold brew, three cups. He sets one on my station. He has not shaved this morning. He is wearing a polo I have not seen.

He sits at the front desk. He opens the laptop. He clicks. He drags. The Meet the Team carousel rebuilds in front of him. I do not look at the screen. I hear the trackpad. After eleven minutes he closes the laptop.

He walks past my station. He stops at the edge of the desk. The aunt's handpiece is in the drawer. He cannot see it.

"I changed the bio," he says. "On the booking app. On Google. On the carousel. I left mine. I added yours. I took out the line about creative director. I wrote nail artist for yours. I wrote co-owner-in-process for mine."

I do not look up.

"Helen Park called the shop yesterday," he says. "She wanted to confirm a Friday appointment with a Nina Tran. I wrote it on the tablet. It is on your calendar."

"I know."

"I am moving the lease renewal call from next week to after that meeting."

"Okay."

He stands at the edge of the station for another ten seconds. He does not pick up his coffee. He walks to the back office. He closes the door.

At ten-oh-five Ruby walks in. Black coat, blue scarf, three-week-old fill chipped at the index where she catches it on a binder clip at her job. She sits in my chair. She tells me about her sister's first kid. She tells me about a layoff round at the firm that did not touch her this time. She tells me she wants the cherry blossom from the Chen set — only on the ring finger, only one branch, two blossoms, in the same pink she remembers from the window poster.

I take the aunt's handpiece out of the drawer. I run it on low. The vibration is right.

I file the apex on the index. The angle is true.

At ten-twenty the booking app pings. A new DM from a username I do not recognize. One line: I saw the carousel update. Can I book directly with Nina.

I do not answer it. Marco has not answered it either.

At ten-twenty-three a second DM comes in. Same client, different account, same question.

I set the phone face down. I pick up the three-zero brush. I lift the cap. The pink in the pot is the same pink I mixed for the Chen set in 2024 — the one Marco described on a Reel as approved by him.

I dip. I paint the first blossom on Ruby's ring finger.

The booking app pings again. I do not look. The lumbar brace is on the back of the chair. The handpiece is on the desk. The Friday appointment is on my phone and on a practice tip in my drawer and on a practice tip in my purse. The lease renewal is in ninety days. Marco's name is still on the LLC. There is still only one account on the booking app and the account is in his name.

I have not won anything.

The second blossom takes ninety seconds. I lift the brush.

Ruby asks if I can do the same on the pinky.

I say yes.