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She smiles and nods. “Yeah. It’s early. I’m about eight weeks. No one knows but the guys and my mother.”
I do the basic math in my head. JJ is only around six months old.
“Fast, I know,” she says, reading my expression. “But we’re excited.”
“Congratulations,” I tell her. “I mean it. I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.”
I sink back into my seat, letting the massage therapist work her magic on my feet and calves. Warm oil glides over my skin as her strong hands knead the tight muscles, working out the tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. The room is quiet except for soft instrumental music and the distant sound of water running somewhere deeper in the spa. By the time Adeline returns, my shoulders have dropped, and the knot of anxiety building in my sternum has loosened. I feel better—lighter, more present in my own body.
Verity glances over as I stand and slip my feet into the provided slippers. “Break a leg tonight.”
I grin, the words landing with unexpected warmth. “Thanks. You too.” I glance at her belly. “With everything.”
She gives me a small, knowing nod, and I follow Adeline back to the main salon. The air still carries the sharp scent of lightener mixed with expensive products. Michelle is waiting beside the rinsing station, her expression calm and professional. She guides me into the chair and begins washing the bleach from my hair. Cool water cascades over my scalp as the chemical cloudiness swirls down the drain. When she finally turns me toward the mirror, I can’t help but gawk.
My hair is pale—almost white at the roots—stripped of every trace of its usual deep color. It looks foreign against my skin, like someone else’s reflection has taken my place.
“Trust the process,” Michelle says, leaning over my shoulder with a knowing smile. Her hands rest lightly on the chair, steady and reassuring.
At this point, there’s no going back, a realization that is more reassuring than upsetting. I nod once, settling deeper into the seat as she begins the next stages. The entire process takes six hours. Conditioning treatments that leave my hair heavy and soft. Careful coloring applied in precise sections. Multiple rinses. Cream treatments that seal and soften. Time stretches and blurs. I watch the transformation happen in pieces through the mirror—strands lightening, then taking on a soft, almost luminous quality under the salon lights. My mind drifts between the performance ahead and the quiet conversation with Verity earlier. The weight of Amber’s name still lingers in my thoughts, but something about this tedious process helps quiet it.
When Michelle is finally finished, she spins the chair fully toward the large mirror. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. The hair is lighter, almost ethereal—something closer to the sacrificial, elevated look Madame Duval wanted for the Chosen One. It frames my face differently, sharpening features I usually soften with darker tones. For a moment I just sit there, studying the stranger who is still somehow me.
“Help me cover it up?” I ask, voice quieter than I intend. “I want it to be a surprise tonight.”
Michelle carefully gathers the newly lightened hair and tucks it beneath a soft silk scarf, wrapping it so none of the color shows. She adjusts the fabric with practiced hands until it’s secure. I stand, smoothing the scarf, and feel a strange mix of nerves and anticipation settle under my skin.
On my way out, I walk down the hallway where photographs of the prior house girls line the walls in neat, framed rows. The faces stare back at me—plastered smiles and perfect posture–all of them frozen in a version of themselves that once belonged to this world. I stop at the Barons section, eyes skimming the images until one catches and holds me.
Adeline comes up behind me, her footsteps soft on the polished floor. “Looking for someone?”
I nod, unable to look away. Unable to say her name.
She steps closer and points to a photograph near the center of the display. Of course Adeline knew. She has some instinct for what we need when we walk in the door. I recognize her immediately from the framed picture in Timothy’s room—the one where she’s holding a young Remy. Here, though, she looks happy. Carefree, I guess. Free from the demons that took over her mind.
“Did you know her?” I ask.
“A little,” Adeline says. Her voice is thoughtful, almost careful. “She was intense. Even back then. Beautiful, but there was always something restless about her. Like she was waiting for something bigger than the rest of us. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, people listened.”
I study the photo a moment longer, trying to remember being in her presence. She does seem familiar, but the connection doesn’t lead me back to the kidnapping–to that chamber Regina described so vividly. If anything, I see her face clearly. Not masks or flickering lights. Just a woman. A mother.
It’s unsettling.
“Thank you for today,” I tell Adeline. “It was exactly what I needed.”
She smiles, warm and certain. “You’re going to be amazing tonight, Arianette.”
Her words hit me square in the chest—the confidence I never truly felt before rising, steady and certain. The scarf hides the transformation for now, but underneath it something has already shifted. Tonight, I won’t just perform the role.
I’ll become it.
35
Damon
Tugging at my collar, I can’t decide if I’m restless because I’m wearing a suit and tie, or if it’s dread as we drive through town headed toward the university. It’s already been a long day. While Ari spent the day at the Gilded Rose, Hunter and I met with Sofia to make sure she was organized for tonight.
