"Beautiful," the makeup artist breathes, stepping forward with a case that opens to reveal more products than I've owned in my entire life. "Now let's enhance what nature gave you."
She starts with primer and foundation, smoothing my skin until it looks flawless and luminous, like something from a magazine advertisement. Then comes concealer beneath my eyes to hide the shadows from too many sleepless nights, contour along my cheekbones and jawline to sharpen my features, highlighter on the high points of my face to catch the light.
I watch in fascination as she transforms my features, making them sharper and more defined, more like the photographs of Ana that Lev showed me weeks ago when this all began.
"Your eyes are your best feature," she says, selecting a palette of neutral shadows with hints of bronze and champagne. "We'll keep it classic but dramatic. You'll be memorable."
She blends and layers like an artist, building depth and dimension on my lids until my eyes look larger and more dramatic. Liquid liner creates a subtle wing at the outer corners, elongating my eyes and giving them a feline quality that commands attention. And three coats of mascara make my lashes look impossibly long and full, fanning out like dark feathers.
When she steps back to examine her work, even she seems impressed by what she's accomplished. "Lips," she announces, selecting a shade of deep berry. "This will complete the look."
She lines my lips and fills them in with the rich color, then adds a clear gloss on top that makes them look fuller and more inviting. I press them together and examine the result in the mirror, and the woman looking back at me is someone I've never met before.
She's powerful.
She's beautiful.
She's the kind of woman who walks into a room and commands attention without saying a word.
She's Ana Veche—I'm Ana Veche.
And it's shocking.
"Now the clothes," the older stylist says, unzipping the first garment bag to reveal a suit that makes my breath catch.
It's charcoal gray, clearly custom-made from expensive fabric. It's the kind of material that whispers money and power, but it's intimidating. Paired with the silk blouse, this is a power suit, something I've never tried on, let alone owned. It's exquisite, and I drop the robe without hesitation—Ana wouldn't be modest—and I let them help me into the outfit piece by piece.
The silk against my skin feels luxurious, and the slacks fit like they were made for me, hugging my hips and lengthening my legs. When I shrug into the jacket and turn to face the mirror, I feel something fundamental shift inside my chest.
This is who I could've been my whole life with the right upbringing and the right influence. It isn’t a part I'm playing—this suit, the makeup. This really is me. The only act is the name I'm wearing, but deep down, I know if I had to walk into Luka Kolar's territory and tell him I want those women freed, I could do it as me. I just needed Lev's vote of confidence to give me the mental boost needed.
It makes the idea of continuing this charade more manageable.
"Thank you," I say, and I turn to face them with a warm smile. "All of you. You've done exceptional work."
They beam at the praise as they gather their supplies and pack up to leave. I remain standing in front of the mirror, practicing my posture and my expression, making sure every element of Ana Veche is in place before Lev sees the finished product.
When the bedroom door opens behind me, I see his reflection appear in the mirror before I hear his voice.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes.
I turn slowly, giving him the full effect of the transformation. His eyes travel from my newly darkened hair to my dramatically made-up face to the suit that clings to my body in all the right places, and I watch his expression shift from surprise to appreciation to something much hungrier.
"Do I pass inspection?" I ask, and I make sure my voice carries the cool authority of a Donna rather than the uncertainty of a translator from St. Petersburg.
"Pass?" He stalks toward me with that predatory grace I've come to know so well, his eyes dark with appreciation. "Vivika, you look… fuck. You look absolutely incredible."
"Ana," I correct him, holding my ground as he approaches. "Today I'm Ana."
"Ana, then." He stops in front of me and reaches out to touch my face, his fingers trailing along my jawline with a possessiveness that makes heat pool low in my belly. "Ana, you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
His hand slides lower, down my neck to my collarbone, heading toward the buttons of my silk blouse, and I catch his wrist before he can go any further. The movement makes his eyes widen, and I use his momentary confusion to step back and put space between us.
"You'll ruin my makeup," I say coolly, and I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds. I really am ready for this.
"I'll ruin more than that if you keep looking at me like that." He advances again, and this time when he reaches for me, I smack his hand away with a sharp crack of flesh against flesh.
His eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just?—"
