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This is the third time I’ve redone it. I pretend I’m not sweating about it.
Brush. Hairspray. Brush again. More hairspray.
I could survive a tornado at this point. Possibly a mild alpha temper tantrum.
Makeup next. A little highlighter to fake dewy joy, eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, and a medium-pink lip stain.
Minimal effort, maximum manipulation.
I lean in close to the mirror.
A beta stares back.
Good girl. Keep it bland.
Satisfied, I sling my camera bag over my shoulder - the real love of my life - and head for the door. I lock up behind me, heels tapping on the worn stairwell as I descend like a woman who hasn’t spent the last seven years dodging government tracking and suppressing her own biology.
And still, somewhere deep under my ribs, I feel it.
That low hum.
That thrum of something quiet and dangerous, the thing I bury beneath lip gloss and lens caps and half-convincing shrugs.
The part of me that still remembers what I really am, and what I could lose if anyone else found out.
I shove it deeper.
Behind the lipstick.
Behind the camera.
Behind the carefully neutral expression and ten layers of fake confidence.
Tonight, I’m just a photographer. Friendly, invisible and underpaid.
And honestly?
I’ve gottenreallygood at pretending that’s all I’ve ever been.
Chapter Two
Rhea
Ihate heels, but I hate looking out of place more, so I walk like I was born in four inches of black suede and passive-aggressive elegance.
Shoulders back, chin lifted, weight adjusted to a practiced curve of the spine.
Tonight, I’m all clean lines and soft edges. Curated femininity: sharp enough to belong, soft enough to avoid questions.
The look saysbeta with opinions, notomega with a secret stash of blackout-level suppressants.
It's camouflage by contour.
Mascara war paint, and posture so practiced it could run for public office.
Lexi is already outside the venue, waiting like a glitter-drenched goddess of chaos. Her sequin jumpsuit catches every beam of light like it’s trying to summon a disco ball from another dimension, her heels could double as weapons, and her champagne flute is already halfway to empty.
She’s a walking headline, and she knows it.
