Liz Waxbee wiped down the counter for the third time that morning, her gold boots clicking against the tile floor. Eight kids meant eight different school schedules, eight different moods, and zero time for herself. She glanced at the job posting taped to the register—assistant manager needed at the new steakhouse opening downtown. The pay was good, the hours were brutal, but maybe, just maybe, it would lead somewhere. Somewhere a man might see past the chaos of her life and want to stick around anyway. She crumpled the posting and tossed it in the trash. Working more hours wouldn't help her meet anyone—it would just drain what little energy she had left. What she needed was a place where adults actually gathered, where she could talk to people who weren't asking for juice boxes or help with homework. A building caught her eye through the window, its walls covered in barbed wire that gleamed in the morning sun. The sign out front read "Barbwire Villa—Grand Opening Next Week." It looked rough, sure, but the gems embedded in the concrete sparkled like promises. The idea took hold fast. She could host something there—a dinner, maybe. Something fancy with that lavender table she'd seen advertised at the furniture outlet. The one with the fairy decorations that made everything look magical. Adults needed magic too, not just kids. She pictured herself laughing over wine, telling stories, meeting someone who wouldn't run when she mentioned her eight kids. Someone who'd stay. By afternoon, she'd made three calls and signed a rental agreement. The villa was hers for the month. She even ordered a basketball hoop for outside—the floating kind that glowed blue at night. People could shoot around before dinner, break the ice, relax. Her hands shook as she hung up the phone. This was real. This was her actually trying. And maybe, just maybe, it would work.