Elena leaned back, looking at the bouquet of roses Julian had sent over with a note that simply said Teach me.

The play was a gritty revival of a classic noir. Elena played a disgraced judge, a role originally written for a man in his sixties. She had fought for it, clawed for it, and eventually charmed the producers into realizing that a woman who had lived a thousand lives was far more terrifying than a man who had lived one.

Elena offered a practiced, feline smile. "Darling, I’ve survived three divorces, two studio collapses, and the transition from film to digital. This isn’t heavy lifting. This is a Tuesday."

She didn't use the frantic energy of her youth. She used the stillness. She spoke her lines with the cadence of someone who knew exactly how much oxygen she was allowed to take up—and took it all anyway. When she looked into the camera for the live-streamed segment, she didn't hide the fine lines around her eyes. She leaned into them. They weren't wrinkles; they were the topography of her authority.