As the jazz quartet eased into a slow, rhythmic blues, Elena caught her reflection in the gilded mirrors lining the wall. She saw the soft lines around her eyes, earned from decades of laughter and the occasional, necessary heartbreak. Her stature was statuesque, a "big" woman in a world that often tried to make women small. But Elena had no interest in shrinking. She occupied her space with a grounded power, her bust held high, framed by the elegant drape of silk.

"You look like you're plotting something," a voice drifted over her shoulder.

"I’m plotting my next act," Elena replied, her voice a low, melodic hum. "I spent twenty years wondering if I was too much—too loud, too curved, too present. Now? I’m realizing I’m exactly the right amount."