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"It won't drape," her assistant, Marco, wailed, holding up the stiff fabric. "Bea, it looks like a tent. You can’t make the Aurora out of this. The Gala is in seventy-two hours. We’re sunk."

Bea had spent months designing her signature piece, a gown she called "The Aurora." It was a cascading masterpiece of deep velvet and shimmering gold lame, designed specifically to hug every curve, to celebrate the dip of the waist and the flair of the hips. It was supposed to be her entrance into the high-society inner circle, proof that plus-size fashion wasn't just "accommodating"—it was avant-garde.

In the heart of the city’s bustling fashion district, where the mannequins were often size zero and the coffee was black and bitter, Bea ran "The Curated Curvy," a boutique that specialized in making women of size feel like the masterpieces they were.

"It’s expensive," Mabel warned.

"That's where you're wrong, Aunt Mabel," Bea said, her voice ringing out clear and strong in the dusty air. "I don't design for trees. I design for the forest. I design for the landscapes. I design for the women who take up space because they have every right to."

Bea hadn't spoken to her in five years.