Both of them wanted to keep me out. My mother because she was ashamed, my father because he was afraid. They built walls so high I still wake up sometimes thinking I can’t see over them.
Tonight, standing in the place where I thought I belonged, I realize he never saw me as an heir—just a daughter who could deliver a message and then disappear. A pretty pawn, not a player.“For my own good,”he’ll say, if pressed.“For your safety,”he’ll insist. I wish I could believe him.
I slip my phone out as I cross the marble foyer, screen lighting my face with the familiar, civilian glow.
Out in the world, my other life is waiting: tomorrow’s call sheet, the campaign notes for the new skincare brand, a list of modeling requests that would make my mother preen with pride. I let the two lives settle on my shoulders like coats I’ll change between, depending on the weather.
***
In my apartment, I move through the evening’s rituals with the ease of practice. I strip out of the black suit, careful tokeep the foundation from smudging on the collar, and hang it in the dry cleaner’s bag in the back of my closet.
I slide into the cream silk pajamas my mother sent for Christmas, smoothing my hair into the style my agent prefers. I pack a canvas bag for tomorrow: moisturizer, concealer, heel pads, protein bars. Everything neutral, everything light. My “normal girl” armor.
I set two alarms. One for the campaign call time—4:00 a.m., before dawn. The other, an hour earlier, just in case something from my father’s world drags me out of bed.
I brush my teeth, count the brushstrokes, and stare at myself in the foggy mirror. No sign of the steel, not tonight.
My eyes are wide, mouth soft, a face that belongs on billboards or at parties, never in smoke-hazed offices or locked rooms. I wipe a thumb beneath my eye—no smudge, no mascara out of place.
As I slip between the cool sheets, the city flickers through the blinds, painting gold stripes on my skin. I tell myself I should be satisfied. I did what he asked. I did it well, but all I feel is the old hunger, curling in my chest, a need to be more than the clean-handed daughter, more than a pawn. To be trusted. To be seen.
Tomorrow, I’ll smile for the cameras. Tonight, I make a silent promise: I won’t let myself vanish. I won’t stay on the sidelines. Not for him. Not for anyone.
***
The sun is already too bright by the time I hit the studio, slicing through skylights and bouncing from every slick surface. The air smells of hair spray, coffee, and nervous energy. I arrive early—never first, never last—just another body in a room full ofmoving parts, every one of us pretending the day hasn’t already outpaced us.
A row of folding chairs sags under bags and water bottles. Light booms hang overhead, a gentle, pulsing hum beneath the conversations and laughter.
On set, I’m Suzy. Just Suzy. Nobody here would ever imagine what I did forty-eight hours ago. I slide into the space the crew expects: the sweet one, the polite one, who never complains about foundation in her hairline or last-minute wardrobe changes.
The only evidence of last night’s world is the extra set of keys in my tote, the new burner phone zipped under my wallet, just in case.
The lead for today’s campaign is Elara. She’s taller than me by half a head, cheekbones that could slice glass, but there’s a sharp wit under the glossy veneer. Her jokes have teeth, and she doesn’t bother to hide it. I like her immediately, even though I won’t let myself relax.
Elara plops beside me in the other makeup chair, a handful of almonds balanced on a magazine.
“You slept? You don’t look like you did,” she says, arching a brow in the mirror. I give her a smirk.
“Insomnia’s a brand these days,” I reply, voice light. “Or maybe it’s just the concealer.” The makeup artist grins, dusting shimmer on my collarbone.
The day runs in fast-forward—wardrobe, lip gloss, blinding flashes, instructions shouted in three languages. I slip into poses like water, catching the light, throwing practiced smiles at the camera, laughing when the art director cracks his fifth joke.
Every move is deliberate, every gesture easy but never careless. If the world is watching, let them see the version they expect.
Elara pulls me aside before lunch, phone raised. “Selfie time, darling. Give me ‘done with this day’ but make it cute.”
We press cheeks, pull faces. She snaps six, then scrolls for the best. In the frame, I’m all teeth and shoulders, her arm slung over mine. For a moment, the noise in my head fades.
We slide into a shadowed corner, eating fruit from the craft table and whispering gossip—agents who double-book, the creepy guy who always lingers too long at castings, whose playlist is more unhinged, who has the most unhinged mother.
I laugh for real, a small shiver of something like freedom. Elara feels solid, unmanufactured in a world built from gloss and smoke. I let my guard down just enough to remember how good that feels.
“Carpool after?” she asks, bright, hopeful.
“Rain check?” I offer, softening it with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a call with my agent, then errands.”
It’s the truth… sort of. I can’t let her orbit me for long; my life collects shadows, and I won’t let anyone else pay the price for proximity.
