Chapter Text
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BASED ON THIS TWEET:
supergirl!francesca x lenaluthor!michaela —
bibi 🏰 franchaela era (@BridGabi) February 8, 2026
ⅈ.
Stirling Industries’ lobby was all glass and sleek, understated tech. Secure innovation without the typical showy displays of wealth that companies of this size and in this sector typically embraced.
Francesca took in the building with wide eyes, not wanting to make it obvious that this was her first visit but unable to stop herself from quickly scanning the tasteful decor, uniformed guards, and busy staff that shuffled through the room. Looking around, she wished she hadn’t given in on Ms. Stirling’s ‘no tour’ stipulation—one of twenty six, all in complicated legalese that promised that fire and brimstone would rain down on Danbury & Co., should they choose not to comply. And though Francesca knew Stirling Industries was litigious to a terrifying extent, some stubborn part of her still couldn’t help but wonder what Ms. Stirling would say if, during their interview, Francesca just happened to ask for a peek behind the curtain. Francesca wouldn’t, because she was a consummate professional that neither wanted to lose her job or get sued, but as she walked up to the front desk, she wondered.
The receptionist—Natasha, according to her name tag—didn’t look up when Francesca first approached, Francesca having to cough twice before she was finally graced with a polite once over.
"You’re a lot earlier than we expected," Natasha said, glancing at her watch; there was a slight smile on her face, obviously amused at Francesca’s eagerness. "Please, sit. Ms. Stirling will be ready shortly. Can I get you anything? A latte? Water? We have spring, distilled, and carbonated."
Francesca declined, then took a seat in a chair that immediately conformed to the shape of her body, warm and soft in a way that was almost uncanny. She covertly took a picture to show Eloise, because even though they were both around alien tech all the time, Stirling Industries dealt in tech that was inventive and novel and often outpaced their competitors by years. Even their older technology had incredible longevity that made people heap equal parts praise and scorn on Michaela Stirling; the recently promoted head of the company who’d taken over after her father’s death, and was the intelligent mind behind their most popular creations. Francesca had followed her career for years and couldn’t wait to finally pick Michaela Stirling’s brain. To be in her presence, really.
Time passed slowly, Francesca going over her notes in an attempt to calm her nerves. She’d fought for this assignment, gone directly to Agatha Danbury—owner of Danbury & Co., and editor-in-chief, a literary powerhouse who’d built her media empire from the ground up—with a list of reasons in alphabetical order. Francesca had made her case in what she’d thought was an extremely sane and sensible manner, not betraying for a moment her second, less professional reason for wanting the Stirling write up.
Because the truth was that Francesca hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Michaela Stirling since that day, almost three years ago now, when Supergirl—flying home from helping with a house fire—had happened upon the beautiful mogul on her penthouse roof. Leaning on the balcony, wrapped in a silk robe that probably cost more than Francesca’s entire wardrobe, with the silk slipping off Ms. Stirling’s shoulder as she raised a glass of red wine to her lips.
That night, Ms. Stirling had waved teasingly up at Supergirl, who had been soaring past her building. The attention had been distracting, making Francesca’s heart go wild and her face heat up, almost quite literally, as she dodged left to avoid crashing into a window of a high rise. She’d heard Michaela laughing, her surprised chuckle amplified by Supergirl’s enhanced hearing.
That memory had been the subject of countless dreams, though Francesca would swallow kryptonite before ever admitting the pathetically obsessive scope of her crush, that she sometimes fantasized about Ms. Stirling—that summer issue Vogue shoot Michaela did years back, artfully styled in a gold one piece with cut outs that left little to the imagination made frequent appearances in Francesca’s mind—but the draw she felt to Ms. Stirling was about more than just how she looked. Mostly, Francesca had spent the last few years wondering what it would be like to have a real conversation with Michaela, instead of just pouring over the same professional interviews, videos, and her carefully curated socials, which only pushed ‘Michaela Stirling’ as a brand rather offer insight on anything relatable or personal. Francesca was desperate to see behind the Michaela Stirling mask, to meet Michaela, the woman whose laugh had rang out on that spring night, loud and pleased, like she’d never had a bad day in her life.
Francesca was deeply, embarrassingly aware that her crush had quickly gone past casual interest to maybe just a touch insane.
But this fascination was an issue she neither wanted to, or knew how to stop.
It was almost…primal, if she had to put a word to it, a word she’d never, ever say out loud for fear of embarrassing even herself by the intensity of her interest. Francesca had seen beautiful women before. Had even dated a few (casually and never for long, but it still counted) and none had gotten into her head like this, especially before they’d actually had a conversation. But Michaela Stirling, just by existing, had lodged herself inside of Francesca’s heart like some stubborn splinter, and now here Francesca was, forty minutes early to their interview, over-prepared and fidgeting in the Stirling Industries lobby like some starstruck intern.
"Ms. Stirling is ready for you," Natasha said, nodding towards the elevator.
The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime, and Francesca straightened, smoothing a hand over her blazer as she entered. Inside, the city blurred past through the glass enclosure as the elevator whizzed up to the 30th floor. Taking out her phone, Francesca triple checked that her makeup was in place, patting back flyaways as she reapplied her lip balm. She’d changed five times, eventually settling on a white button down tucked into a navy pantsuit with sensible loafers. Comfortable but professional. If the shirt happened to be the one that Penelope had once drunkenly claimed "deliciously accentuated those Bridgerton biceps" well, that was simply a coincidence and nothing more.
The elevator, which was speedy and silent, stopped less than a minute later, the doors sliding open to reveal a wide corridor with expensive art—Francesca recognized a Claudette Johnson piece she’d seen in a gallery a few years back—lining the walls. There were two armed guards getting into the elevator as Francesca exited and neither spared Francesca a glance but she knew that was only because she had been thoroughly vetted before she’d ever stepped foot in this building and that had she appeared to be even a little bit of a threat, they would have apprehended her in seconds. Or they would have tried to, at least. Supergirl would’ve showed them the error of their ways.
Michaela’s office was around the corner, guarded by a tall, beefy man who glanced down at Francesca with a grimace she thought was meant to be a smile. He held up his hand, then waved a device over Francesca, nodding to himself when she passed whatever test he’d implemented, this one a lot less invasive than the thirty minute process she’d had to endure to simply get inside the lobby.
"Right," the guard said, into an earwig, before opening the door. "Ms. Stirling will see you now."
Francesca had rehearsed this moment in her head a dozen times—what she’d say, how she’d hold herself, how much eye contact she’d make and how firmly she’d shake Michaela’s hand—but none of those rehearsals accounted for Michaela Stirling in the flesh.
Sat on the edge of her desk and styled in a knee length, form fitting maroon dress that showed off just the tiniest hint of cleavage, with a high slit exposing a supple sliver of thigh that Francesca let herself take in for three exhilarating seconds, Michaela Stirling was a vision. Her hair was different from the blowout she often wore for events and press, in its natural curls, pulled back in an updo that looked effortless though Francesca was certain it was anything but.
Ms. Stirling brushed back one of the curls that framed her face and Francesca blinked, hard, shaken out from whatever momentary spell she’d been under. She mentally chastised herself, embarrassed about her blatant staring, before she remembered that she’d done it in hyper speed, and that in real time only a second or two had passed.
In that second, Ms. Stirling had crossed her legs, feet just grazing the ground (she was significantly shorter than Francesca which she knew, from her research and the brief glances she’d gotten of her around the city, but seeing her compact form in person Francesca thought, stupidly, that she wanted to put Michaela in her pocket). Daintily perched on top of her desk, Ms. Stirling closed a black folder in her hands. She handed it to the guard, who had walked in behind Francesca and addressed him with an even toned, "thank you, Anderson."
Anderson took the folder without a word, but smiled, quick and genuine, and Francesca felt a flash of something completely irrational overwhelm as she watched them, knowing it was silly but helpless to make herself stop wondering about the specifics of their relationship. She distracted herself by shuffling her notes and looking around the office, while they spoke.
Ms. Stirling’s office was tasteful and tidy with sharp angles and gleaming surfaces, but the woman herself was bright and quick to laughter, if the way she interacted with this Anderson character was anything to go by, at least.
As Anderson left, sending a polite nod Francesca’s way that she stiffly returned, Francesca chanced another glance at Ms. Stirling, only to find she was already looking at her.
"And you must be?" Ms. Stirling asked, head tilted, her face clouded with confusion as she focused on Francesca.
Francesca sputtered, her mouth opening and closing before she settled on an answer. "Francesca," she said. "Francesca Bridgerton. I’m here for your interview with the Gazette? Your assistant contacted my editor…" Francesca kept rambling, her mind only half engaged as she mentally tried to sort out how both sides had gotten their wires crossed so badly that she was now standing in the middle of Michaela Stirling’s office, looking all the fool, while the woman in question had no idea who she was.
"I’m so sorry," Michaela said, after Francesca stopped speaking, her expression almost sheepish. "I was only joking. I requested you, of course I know who you are."
"I—what?" Francesca narrowed her eyes. "That was a joke?"
Michaela nodded. "Not a very good one, I’m afraid. It’s only, you looked so nervous I thought this might break the ice. But you took it seriously and looked quite cute when you started to explain, that I suppose I wanted to see it play out."
"Cute?" Ms. Stirling thought Francesca was cute? Oh, she felt faint. Francesca folded her arms and put on a flat expression, unimpressed and pretending she hadn’t heard, for fear she would ask Ms. Stirling to elaborate. "Jokes are supposed to be funny," Francesca said eventually, before she remembered herself. "I mean—"
Ms. Stirling laughed, a deep, startled noise that made Francesca smile too, despite herself.
"Yes, well," Ms. Stirling shrugged, shameless. "It was funnier in my head. As many things often are. Perhaps next time—"
"Next time?" Francesca saw an opportunity and pounced. She might have been nervous for reasons she'd only let herself examine in the confines of her mind and bedroom, but she was still a journalist. "Is this you agreeing to a follow-up interview?"
Ms. Stirling raised her eyebrow, surprised. Then she smiled, pretty and wide, giving Francesca a slow once over that Francesca pretended didn’t light up everything nerve in her body. "So. Not a docile pony after all."
Francesca blushed and her palms went sweaty as her heart beat tripped over itself. There was nothing overly suggestive about what Ms. Stirling had said, not in her words or her tone, but for some reason—maybe her smile? which had been self satisfied and smug—made Francesca swallow hard, dazed, feeling like there was a part of this conversation she wasn’t quite grasping.
"No," Francesca said at last, shaking her head slightly to try and reorient herself. It didn’t quite work. "Not docile."
"Good. Let’s start over." Ms. Stirling held out her hand and Francesca immediately took it. It was warm and soft and she could smell the pomegranate oil in her lotion. "Michaela Stirling. But please, call me Michaela. It’s a pleasure to meet you."
"Francesca Bridgerton. And the pleasure is all mine." Francesca realized she’d been shaking Michaela’s hand for almost thirty seconds and dropped it abruptly. She started to reach for her recorder then paused, recalling Michaela’s earlier words. "Wait, did you say you requested me?"
"I did." Michaela tilted her head again, a quirk of hers that Francesca already found endearing. "I saw your profile on the Birds of Prey—excellent job by the way, you actually made Gotham almost sound like an actual city and not just a pit-stop on the way to hell. I read it and had my assistant call Agatha immediately."
"What? Danbury had me grovel for three days. I made a spread sheet and everything."
Michaela laughed again and Francesca glowed, inordinately pleased at being the cause.
"I like a woman who’s dedicated to her craft," Michaela said, grinning. "Please, have a seat."
Francesca lowered herself onto the couch in the corner of the office, pulling out her notebook as Michaela walked around to her desk, hips swaying in a way that Francesca didn’t really notice or find enticing in the least.
She turned on her recorder and opened the notebook to a new page, scribbled Michaela’s name, the date, time, and other quick observations she’d made so far, in shorthand, the pen in her hand a comforting weight. Most of the staff used tablets or even their phones these days, preferring to type, but there was something about jotting down her thoughts down manually that Francesca loved.
"Right. Let’s start the dissection then," Michaela said from behind her desk, picking up a mug of something that Francesca’s super smell identified as coffee. It was extremely sugared and diluted with so much cream that the coffee might as well not have put in an appearance.
Francesca bit back a smile, finding this little tidbit adorable. "Dissect is such a clinical word," she said. "This is more of a respectful, honest dialogue."
"Oh, a 'dialogue'," Michaela repeated, laughter in her voice as she set the cup down. "Journalists love to say that instead of just calling themselves nosy. But you almost sound like you mean it so I’ll pretend I buy it."
Francesca laughed, feeling like she’d just gotten a gold sticker as the scent of Michaela’s perfume—something spicy and woody, with a hint of sweetness—drifted between them. Francesca had superhuman senses, but this was unfair. She sat back and cleared her throat. God, but this was going to be a long afternoon.
"I was hoping we could start with—"
"What’s your angle, Ms. Bridgerton? Exposé or ingratiating arse kissing?"
Francesca raised her eyebrows at the sudden change in tone, the cool and closed off way Michaela now held herself. It made her even more attractive, this sternness, and Francesca hated herself for noticing. "No angle," she said, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Just the truth."
"Right." Michaela arched an eyebrow, disbelieving. "Honesty. Well, Miss Bridgerton—"
"Francesca, please."
Michaela smiled, soft. "Francesca," she amended. "I’m neither a villain nor a saint." Michaela’s tone was even but there was something…almost resentful underneath. "I know my family’s reputation and my own, by extension, but the truth is, all I want to do is help."
"And make a tidy profit while you’re at it," Francesca responded, wry.
"Of course," Michaela admitted cheerily, holding Francesca’s gaze. "That’s the way of the world. It’s not ideal but it’s how things are, at least for now."
"And if things were different?"
Michaela looked at Francesca, curious, considering. Francesca held her gaze, pen paused in the air.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the gold in Michaela’s eyes and highlighting the curve of her cheek. She looked regal, gorgeous, and Francesca’s fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, to trace the edge of her lower lip just to see if it felt as soft as it looked. The urge washed over her, hot and insistent, and before Francesca could stop herself, her grip tightened—
Snap.
Michaela’s gaze lowered to the now broken pen in Francesca’s hand, then back up to Francesca’s face, frowning.
"Sorry. I stole this from work and it’s cheap," Francesca lied, badly. "This is actually the third one I’ve broken this month."
Michaela nodded. Francesca couldn’t read her face—amusement? curiosity? something more knowing?
"Take mine," Michaela offered, holding out her expensive looking silver fountain pen between them.
Francesca had to stand to take it, the distance between the desk and the couch suddenly feeling more vast than a few steps. She stared at the clock hanging above Michaela’s desk instead of Michaela’s face, as she approached, her knees oddly unsteady. Their fingers brushed as she took the pen, and the contact was so fleeting, so incidental, that Francesca had no excuse for the way her skin tingled afterward.
"Thank you," Francesca muttered, retreating to her seat with the pen clutched too tightly in her hand. The stationary was warm where Michaela had held it.
"You’re welcome," Michaela said easily. "You can keep it, but I think this one is a little more sturdy. So it might survive your...extremely firm grip."
Francesca forced herself to breathe, to focus on the notebook in front of her. "I’ll be careful."
The interview continued—somehow—with Francesca clinging to professionalism like a lifeline. She asked about Michaela’s day to day, how she decided on what projects to fund, how she came up with ideas and her latest project, a nanotech breakthrough that could revolutionize medical diagnostics. Michaela answered with a mix of technical precision and sharp humour that made Francesca laugh more than she’d expected. It was unfair, really, how effortlessly Michaela commanded the room and how Francesca couldn't help but lean in, hanging onto her every word.
"You’re not writing much," Michaela observed, pausing through an explanation of biocompatible polymers.
"I have an eidetic memory," Francesca said truthfully, unthinking.
"Oh, wow. That must be incredibly useful in your line of work."
Francesca had spent years perfecting the art of deflection, thinking on her feet and coming up with convincing answers to explain away the few times she’d slipped with her powers, especially growing up. But here, under Michaela’s intense gaze, she felt all her usual defences fade. Wanted to lay herself bare and have Michaela pick her apart. She definitely had a problem.
"It depends," Francesca admitted. "It’s useful but sometimes it feels like something between a party trick and a hindrance."
"I can see that," Michaela said, thoughtfully. "But it’s still impressive."
"It is, isn’t it?" Francesca smiled before she could help it, then looked away. She really needed to stop with the personal slip ups. That was dangerous. Supergirl had perfect recall; Francesca Bridgerton did not.
"But I have to ask. If your memory is so exact, then what happened with your article last month on the Mondrich’s? Alice is a dear friend and I noticed that you misquoted their—"
"No I didn’t," Francesca interrupted, pushing her glasses up her nose. She’d fact-checked that piece three times. "I mean. I think you’re mistaken."
Michaela laughed, and again, Francesca felt her own lips twitch in response, like a sunflower toward sunlight. She flipped to a new page of her notebook and scribbled down some reminders:
1: stop taking the bait!!
2: STOP thinking it’s hot that she does this, you are a professional!
Knowing she would ignore them the second she looked away from the page.
"I was just checking," Michaela shrugged, undeterred.
"Checking what?"
"That you're as sharp as you seem." Michaela's smile deepened, her teeth flashing white against her deep red lipstick. "And you are. Though I’d assumed so."
Francesca squinted. "Did you."
"Of course. I had my assistant start a dossier before I’d finished reading your last article." She stared at Francesca, her gaze sharp and assessing. "Top of every class; scholarships to multiple universities including the ivies, overseas; graduated with honours; a volunteer at a food bank, a kill shelter, and a frequent donor to multiple causes." Michaela’s smile only grew when Francesca gaped. "You grew up comfortably middle class and go home often enough to suggest you have a healthy relationship with your mother. You also work with your sister, have a nice flat you’ve been renting for 3 years and recently adopted a golden retriever, Comet. Your articles are fair, but firm and never salacious, even when the topics are tempting. And you also seem to be incredibly skilled at making your subjects let down their guard. But that one I gathered from this conversation."
Francesca could hear herself breathing loudly and swallowed, tearing her eyes away from Michaela and looking down at her notes. She’d expected a background check and for Michaela to know some scattered facts, to have maybe read an article or two of hers. Not to become familiar with her whole body of work and Francesca herself. The realization sent a flush creeping up her neck, bright and warm. "I’ve been vetted before but not to this degree. That was unnerving." She said, taken aback and also a little bit flattered? "Do you do this for everyone who interviews you?"
"Take it as a compliment." Michaela leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the desk. "And no, I don’t. As I’m sure you’re aware, few people get the chance to speak to me one on one. And I usually let my team handle the specifics. But you’re good at your job and I was interested. More so now that we’ve spoken. I like people who make me work for it."
Francesca’s fingers twitched around the pen. Her blazer felt too tight, suddenly. She shrugged it off, then picked up her notebook again. "Work for what, exactly?"
"The truth," Michaela said, eyes stuck on Francesca’s arms. Francesca ran her hands through her hair, unintentionally flexing as she did so. She could sense Michaela’s pulse quickening and oh-oh.
"Ms. Stirling?" Francesca said, sure now that she wasn’t imagining the way Michaela’s eyes lingered on her arms.
Michaela cleared her throat, blinked. She still looked incredibly composed and if Francesca hadn’t been able to read her biometrics she should’ve been fooled. But she knew now that she wasn’t the only one affected by…whatever this energy was.
"Most people are terrible liars. You’re not," Michaela continued, like nothing had happened. She pushed back from her desk. "Or you’re very, very good at it. I can’t decide."
Francesca’s fingers tightened around the pen—just once, just enough to feel the resistance of the metal—before forcing herself to relax. "I’m a journalist," she said evenly. "Lying would be counterproductive."
"Oh, please. Everyone lies. Especially journalists." Her eyes lowered to Francesca’s notebook, now closed. "But you’re not here to lie to me, are you?"
"No," Francesca lied. "I’m not."
"Good. Let’s continue."
They wrapped up the rest of the interview smoothly, after that. As they stood to exchange goodbyes, Michaela walked to the front of her desk and extended her hand. Their hands met and Francesca was acutely aware of the callouses on her own fingers, how wet her palms were, against the dry softness of Michaela’s skin.
Their hands stayed clasped for long enough for the warmth of Michaela’s skin to seep into Francesca’s, and the silence to grow weighted. Michaela rubbed her thumb against Francesca’s knuckles, looking up at her with her big, brown eyes. Francesca cleared her throat, withdrawing her hand as if burned, the ghost of Michaela’s touch still buzzing against her palm. She opened her mouth to say goodbye, to retreat into the safety of professionalism, but Michaela spoke first.
"Saturday," Michaela said. Her tone was casual, but the look on her face, intense and unflinching, was anything but. "It’s the Stirling Foundation’s annual fundraiser. You should come."
Francesca blinked. "I—"
"I know it’s short notice," Michaela continued, waving a hand as if dismissing the obstacle before Francesca could voice it. "But I can arrange a gown. Or suit, if you’d prefer. And a ride." Michaela looked almost nervous, though Francesca couldn’t imagine why. She wasn’t the one being invited to one of the most coveted social events of the year. One that came with extensive press and publicity. "You’re welcome to bring a plus one, of course."
Francesca opened her mouth and said no, but it sounded like "I’d love to come."
"Wonderful," Michaela said, and her smile went soft and sweet, different than the self assured grins she’d been flashing prior. She looked so pretty that for a second, Francesca let herself stare, looking down at Michaela as she held a hand out for Francesca’s phone and started tapping the screen. "There. Now you’ve got my number. I’ll send a car for you at seven."
"Oh. Right, then. I’ll text my address—"
"I’ve got a dossier on you, remember?"
"I do," Francesca said, nodding. "Can I ask about what else you’ve got in this dossier? Other than what you’ve already told me."
"Only the basics. Nothing scandalous." Michaela narrowed her eyes, her smile sharpening. "Unless you’ve got some skeletons in your closet that you'd like to share?"
"Not at all." Francesca shrugged, faking calm. "I lead a very boring life, I’m afraid."
"Somehow," Michaela said, low, stepping closer; close enough that if Francesca leaned down their noses would touch. "I doubt that."
"It’s true." Francesca bit her lip, telling herself to take a step back. Nothing happened. She tucked her hand into her pocket, thankful she wasn’t holding her pen anymore. It would’ve been in shambles now.
Michaela’s gaze lingered on her face like she could read the panic thrumming beneath Francesca’s skin. "See you Saturday," she said, and then she stepped even closer and adjusted Francesca’s collar. "There, now you’re perfect."
Francesca nodded dumbly, sure that her face was tomato red, now. She turned to the door and tossed back a high pitched, "goodbye, Ms. Stirling," over her shoulder, before rushing out.
The elevator ride down was somehow faster than before and Francesca pressed her forehead against the glass interior, inhaling through her nose, doing the breathing exercises Eloise taught her when she'd first arrived on Earth, anxious and sad and cautious of everything. She kept at it now, trying to reset her pulse. The scent of Michaela’s perfume still clung to Francesca's blazer and without thinking, she sniffed her sleeve, closing her eyes while she did, like someone who was one hundred perfect sane and businesslike. She was never going to wash this blazer.
Right.
Professional standards apparently meant nothing to Francesca’s unwieldy lesbian brain because the crush was definitely not gone. It had actually amplified by an insane amount, which she hadn’t really thought possible.
There was absolutely no chance of her showing up to that gala. Not unless she wanted to further humiliate herself in front of Michaela. But then again, Francesca thought, hadn’t she sensed something a little... she didn't want to be presumptuous because Francesca had read these things wrong before, but she also couldn’t deny that there were moments when it felt like there was almost something between them. Maybe? Probably not. She’d only just met Michaela but it was clear she wasn’t one to hold back. Had she been interested she would’ve said so. Or maybe not, since they’d been conducting an interview and not speed dating. What was Francesca even thinking, entertaining this line of thought? She needed to snap out of it. And fast. She had come to work, not to indulge her personal feelings regarding one of the most beautiful, charming women she’d ever met.
By the time she reached the lobby, Francesca was only more in her head, having already drafted and discarded six texts to Eloise, each one progressively more incoherent. The seventh just read: Help.
Eloise replied in seconds.
E [I take it the Stirling interview didn’t go well?]
F [It did.
[I think.
[She invited me to her foundation’s gala this weekend. With a plus one.]
E [What!
[That’s a 100k ticket?!
[I’m obviously coming with. I read that one year she gave out blank cheques for people to donate to any cause they liked. Up to 50k. Something like that would be so incredible for the women’s shelter.]
Francesca rolled her eyes; leave it to Eloise to find the socially conscious angle to everything. She did make a good point, though. And now Francesca had guilt on top of her other conflicting feelings. She groaned, getting a startled glance from Natasha who then smiled and waved goodbye.
Exiting the building, Francesca tucked her phone in her pocket.
Michaela had said Francesca was good at getting people to let down their guard, as if she hadn’t spent the entire hour doing just that to Francesca, herself. She had completely disarmed Francesca and made her feel lopsided, on fire. It was a lot. Too much. Michaela was a public figure with too many eyes on her, which was not only unideal for Francesca’s personal life but obviously dangerous for the Supergirl of it all. Off limits. Michaela was off limits.
Francesca decided she was going to text Michaela right now and say she was sorry, but that she couldn’t make to the gala. She took out her phone, pulled up Michaela's contact, then closed it. Opened Eloise’s instead.
[Call me.]