Mila appears with an armful of makeup palettes, her face serious with concentration. She’s wearing pajamas covered in stars, dark hair in the braids Sergei recently learned how to do. She looks so small. So innocent.
“Sit.” She pats the vanity stool like she’s the adult and I’m the child.
I obey, letting the towel gap slightly as I settle. Mila studies my face with those hazel-green eyes that see too much, then reaches for the primer.
“Papa taught me about bone structure,” she says conversationally, dabbing product on my cheeks. “He said everyone has angles. You just have to find them.”
“Your papa taught you about makeup?”
“He taught me about faces. How to read them. How to remember them.” She blends with surprising skill. “But makeup’s basically the same thing. You’re enhancing what’s already there.”
I watch her work in the mirror, this eight-year-old applying foundation with the precision of a professional. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth in concentration.
“You’re really good at this,” I tell her.
“Mama used to practice on me sometimes when she was in a good mood. She said I had good cheekbones. Like Papa.”
“You do. You’re beautiful, Mila.”
She pauses, brush hovering near my temple. “You think so?”
“I know so.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “And not because of cheekbones or angles or anything your papa taught you about faces. Because you’re kind. Brave.”
She sets down the brush, reaching for the eyeshadow palette. “Papa’s different with you. You make the scary parts smaller.”
My throat closes. I force myself to breathe normally, to not let her see how those words wreck me.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs.
I do. The brush sweeps across my lids—soft, deliberate, the gold she picked earlier catching light even through closed eyes. She works in silence for several minutes, and I let myself exist in this moment. Not thinking about Matthew or guns or the very real possibility I might not come home.
Thinking about this. A little girl who’s lost her mother and found something like safety in the woman her father fake-married.
“Open.”
I do. The woman in the mirror looks like me but sharper. Dangerous. The gold eyeshadow makes my blue eyes electric, and Mila’s applied liner with a wing that could cut glass.
“Wow.” The word comes out breathless. I seriously didn’t expect an eight-year-old to be this good at applying makeup. I was fullyprepared to redo the entire thing after she was gone to not hurt her feelings. “Sweetheart, you’re amazing.”
Her smile could power the entire city. “Now lips. What color?”
“Red. Same as the dress.”
She finds the tube in my collection, twisting it up. “This is the fancy one. Papa says rich people waste money proving they have money. He says real power is quiet. But you’re different rich. You don’t waste things.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re doing good. Papa loves you, you know. I can tell.”
“Mila—”
She hops off the stool. “Now get dressed. I want to see the whole thing.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring at my own reflection, heart hammering against my ribs.
The red dress hangs waiting. I drop the towel and reach for the black lace set I bought specifically for tonight. La Perla, obscenely expensive, the kind of lingerie that makes you feel powerful, even if no one sees it.
I slide on the bra, adjusting until everything sits perfectly. Then the matching thong that barely qualifies as underwear. In the mirror, I look like sin wrapped in lace, and satisfaction curls low in my belly.
