THE TRANSFORMATION
The stylist's name is Margot, and she circles me like a surgeon examining damage she's been hired to repair.
"Good bone structure," she murmurs, tilting my chin with cool fingers. "But you've been crying."
I stiffen. "I haven't."
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, unimpressed. "Your skin tells a different story."
I want to argue. I want to say that tears are a luxury I can't afford, that I've spent the last three days turning grief into strategy, emotion into armor.
But Margot doesn't wait for my defense.
She gestures to her assistant, a young woman with immaculate winged eyeliner and hands that move like instruments. "We start with hydration. Then coverage. Then architecture."
Architecture.
As if my face is a structure that needs reinforcement.
Maybe it is.
I sit in the chair and let them work.
The process is methodical. Clinical. They don't ask me what I like or what feels comfortable. They assess, decide, execute. My input is not required because this is not about preference.
This is about performance.
Margot works in silence, her focus absolute. Foundation smooths across my skin like plaster filling cracks. Concealer erases the shadows under my eyes,the ones that betray how little I've slept, how much I've calculated, how har,d I've fought to stay upright.
"Close your eyes," she says.
I do.
Brushes sweep across my lids. Soft, precise, relentless.
I feel the weight of powder, the drag of liner, the flutter of false lashes being applied with surgical care.
When she finally steps back, I open my eyes.
The woman in the mirror is a stranger.
Not because I don't recognize my features, but because they've been sharpened into something else entirely. My eyes look larger, darker, and dangerous. My lips are the color of controlled violence,deep red, perfectly defined.
I look like someone who doesn't apologize.
Someone who doesn't lose.
Margot nods once, satisfied. "Now the dress."
The garment is midnight blue silk, so dark it's almost black. It clings without apology, hugging curves I've spent years trying to minimize in boardrooms where being noticed felt dangerous.
But this dress doesn't ask permission.
It demands attention.
The neckline dips just low enough to remind people I have a body. The back is bare, exposing skin I've kept hidden under blazers and cardigans for half a decade.
I stare at my reflection and feel something unfamiliar rise in my chest.
Not confidence.
Power.
The door opens without warning.
Killian steps inside, and the air changes.
He's in a tuxedo that fits like it was designed specifically to make people forget how to breathe. Dark fabric. Clean lines. No excess. Everything about him is controlled wrapped in expensive cloth.
His gaze moves over me slowly.
Not leering.
Assessing.
The silence stretches until it feels like pressure against my ribs.
"You'll do," he says finally.
I almost laughed. "That's the review?"
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "You don't need compliments, Elena. You need to be believed."
The words land heavier than I expect.
He crosses the room and stops behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the silk. Close enough that the faint scent of his cologne,something cedar and citrus,registers as warmth instead of fragrance.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a velvet box.
My pulse stutters.
He opens it.
A sapphire necklace lies inside,deep blue, surrounded by diamonds that catch the light like shattered glass.
"Turn around," he says.
I do, and my breath shortens as he steps closer.
His hands are steady as he fastens the necklace around my throat. His fingers brush the nape of my neck,calloused slightly, warmer than I expected,and the touch is so brief, so precise, it feels like a contract clause I didn't read carefully enough.
The sapphire settles against my collarbone. Heavy. Cold at first, then warming against my skin.
"There," he murmurs.
I turn back to the mirror.
The sapphire sits against my throat like a claim.
Like proof.
"It's too much," I say, though I don't move to take it off.
Killian's reflection watches mine. "It's exactly enough."
I swallow, and the necklace shifts. The weight of it grounds me and unsettles me in equal measure.
"Friday," he says quietly. "When we walk into that gala, every person in that room will reassess you. Not because you're beautiful,though you are,but because you're mine."
The possessive lands in my chest like a stone.
I should hate it.
I don't.
"And Marcus?" I ask.
Killian's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Marcus will see exactly what he threw away."
I meet his eyes in the mirror, and for a moment, the space between us feels dangerously small.
"Don't let the mask slip, Elena," he says, his voice low and steady. "Tonight, you are the woman who owns the man who owns the city."
I lift my chin slightly. "I won't."
He steps back, breaking the intimacy like it was never there.
"Good," he says. "The car leaves in twenty minutes."
He walks out, and I'm left staring at a woman I barely recognize.
A woman in armor made of silk and sapphires.
A woman who looks like she could destroy you and never lose sleep over it.
I touch the necklace once, feeling the weight of it.
This is not a rescue.
This is weaponization.
And I am ready.