And for the first time, I don’t know which would hurt more—if tonight kills me…Or if it doesn’t.
31
Mary
“Are you sure my tits are supposed to be this…committed?”
Jasper freezes mid-eyeliner, his brush hovering like a loaded weapon.
“Committed? Darling, they’re starring in the movie. The rest of you is just supporting cast.”
I look down. The emerald satin is hanging on like it has rent to pay.
“If I inhale too hard, I’ll file an insurance claim.”
“Perfect. Fashion should hurt a little. It builds moral character.” He leans back, studying me like a sculptor with trust issues. “Now, lift your chin—confident, notmugshot.”
Three of Jasper’s “glam militia” swarm me—curling iron, body shimmer, and perfume fog thick enough to baptize a small country. I’m half human, half aerosol.
The dressing room smells like foundation, nerves, and citrus champagne. My phone’s face-down on the counter because I don’t want to see another text from Caleb. Because every time his name pops up, I feel like someone just slid a contract across the table that I’m already signing in blood.
The screen lights anyway.
I stare at it for a second, debating. Then, because I’m apparently a masochist, I flip it over.
Caleb Whitfield:Evening, Mary. The event’s black tie. Make sure you’re there before the opening remarks. I’d hate for the bank to be underrepresented.
Polite. Efficient. Threat-adjacent. Classic Caleb.
I set the phone back down, face-first this time, like I can smother the message before it breathes any deeper into my night.
I bite my lip without thinking.
“No, no, no—” One of the makeup artists lunges forward with a tissue. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
She’s already dabbing at my bottom lip, frowning. “We just finished.” She pulls out the lipstick again, reapplying the berry stain with quick, precise strokes. “There. Stunning.”
When I look up, the mirror shows someone I barely recognize. Hair swept up in soft waves, skin glowing under whatever miracle product they brushed on, lips stained a deep berry that makes me look older. Expensive. Like someone who belongs at a charity gala instead of behind a bank counter counting twenties.
Which is exactly where I was eight hours ago.
It’s been a day straight out of hell. The kind where the line never ends, the cash drawer jams, and someone yells because their online transfer didn’t clear fast enough. I spent eight hours smiling through complaints, pretending “I understand your frustration” means anything when my feet stopped feeling human around lunch. Caleb wasn’t in the branch once, but he’s been haunting my phone since noon—text after text about tonight’s dress code, donor lists, arrival times. Like I’m one of his gala lackeys instead of the girl chained to the teller counter. Because apparently, I’m still part of his show.
“Arms up, honey,” says a girl with a pink pixie cut and a belt full of brushes, reaching for the bronzer.
I lift them obediently. She sweeps the brush along my collarbones, down my arms, creating shadows that make me look more defined. More deliberate. The bristles tickle, but I stay still.
“Turn,” she instructs.
I rotate slightly. A guy who looks like he moonlights as a K-drama actor steps in, hair bleached silver and curled just enough to look effortless. The mist hits cool against my skin, bright with citrus.
For a second, I focus on the rhythm of it: the brush, the spray, the background chatter. Easier than thinking. But my mind doesn’t stay quiet for long. It slips back to tonight, looping through every detail like I’m afraid I’ll miss a cue.
The Starlight Children’s Charity Gala—7:30 PM, Imperial Hotel Ballroom, valet entrance through the east drive. Black tie, champagne tower, photo ops with men who call crimes “investments.” I mentally catalog everything Caleb texted me. Arrival time. Which entrance. Who to look for. It feels less like party planning and more like mission prep.
“Tilt your head back,” the makeup artist says.
