ONE
DAKOTA
The brush scrapes against my scalp as the makeup artist yanks my hair into submission. Another pin jabs my skin.
I don’t wince.
Ladies don’t show discomfort. Mother’s words, not mine.
“Hold still, please.” Tammy, the makeup artist my mother found on Craigslist, tightens her grip on my shoulder. Her acrylic nails are worse than the pins pricking. “Almost perfect.”
Perfect.
The word follows me like a shadow.
I’ve spent twenty-six years learning, trying to be perfect, and I still don’t know if I’ve gotten it right. Perfect daughter. Perfect student. Perfect bride for a perfect business arrangement that will save my perfect family.
“There.” She steps back, admiring her work. “What do you think?”
The woman staring back has my blue-tinted eyes, but they are bigger now, framed by false lashes and subtle smoky shadow. My lips are a pale pink.
“Nothing too bold,” Mother said. “We want Cameron to see refinement, not desperation.”
My long black hair is swept into an elegant low bun, not one strand out of place. And three nights without rest, lying awake thinking about today, erased through some brush strokes.
The pearl earrings, a gift from Rosa, Cameron’s grandmother, catch the light when I turn my head.
At least someone in the Mora family doesn’t look at me like I’m here to rob them blind. She was always kind to me, even when I was a kid.
“It’s lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”
Tammy beams, pleased with her creation. She fusses with my veil, spreading it carefully over my shoulders, the delicate lace a web that will trap me if I stay too long.
A young woman, Tammy’s assistant, rushes in, her face flushed. “I can’t reach Mary. She’s not answering texts or calls.”
Tammy barely looks up from adjusting my veil. “I’m sure she’s fine. Probably stuck in traffic.”
“But she was supposed to be here an hour ago with—Mrs. Levine will?—”
“Mrs. Levine has bigger concerns.” Tammy waves her hand dismissively. “The ceremony starts soon, and we’re finishing up here.”
“I’m worried.” The assistant shuffles her feet, then holds out her phone again. “Have you seen this? It’s all over social media.”
Tammy sighs and takes the phone. Her professionally maintained eyebrows shoot up as she scrolls through whatever she’s seeing. “This younger generation really is mad, huh?” She hands the phone back. “Calling it a protest. Looks more like a riot to me. Costumes? Is this real?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing for you to worry about, dear.” Tammy pats my shoulder, giving me a big smile. “Today is your big day. Nothing is going to spoil that.”
I force a smile in return, the muscles in my face stiff from practice.
How many times have I manufactured this exact expression? In family photos, when Father’s hand gripped my shoulder too tightly. Or at charity galas, we don’t belong, where Mother paraded me like a prize poodle.
The assistant’s phone chimes, and she glances at it, her eyes widening. “Um, Tammy? There was an emergency alert in another city. They’re saying people got hurt. The police are?—”
“Enough.” Tammy’s voice has an edge now. “Go check if the flowers have arrived for the reception tables.”
Pouting, the assistant stomps away.
