The Makeover’s Purpose

Kieran’s Point of View

The tall woman looked like she’d been carved out of marble and polished with moonlight, long limbs, perfect posture, cheekbones that could probably cut glass. Her hair was pinned up in this complicated twist I’d never even be able to copy if I tried for a hundred years.

She gave me one slow, appraising look, head tilted just enough to make it clear she was deciding if I was worth her time.

“I am Beatrix,” she said finally, her voice clipped. “Royal stylist to the upper chambers. I take the impossible and make it presentable.”

Of course. Because apparently the sewer rat from the lower chamber needed a royal stylist now.

Laura Maria was leaning against the doorway like she owned the room, which, fine, she probably did, arms crossed, watching us like she was about to enjoy a private show.

“She’s yours,” Laura Maria told the woman. “Make her ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked before I could stop myself.

They ignored me. Like my voice was just background noise, a bird chirping somewhere in the distance.

The stylist stepped toward me, all business. “Stand straight.”

I did. Or, I tried to. My spine didn’t exactly know what “royal posture” meant, but I gave it my best shot.

She circled me once, fingers occasionally brushing the air like she was sketching something invisible around me. Then she grabbed a tape measure from a nearby table and started wrapping it around my waist, my arms, my neck, muttering numbers under her breath.

“Too thin,” she murmured, like she was disappointed. “And the hair… gods, the hair needs a miracle.”

“Wow,” I said, forcing a smile. “Love the confidence boost.”

She didn’t even blink.

Two more women slipped in through another door, carrying trays stacked with makeup jars, brushes, and glittering hair pins. Behind them came a third, holding a garment bag the size of my entire body.

The next three hours were a blur of pulling, tugging, scrubbing, and poking.

First, they sat me in a chair that might as well have been a throne for how much it swallowed me up. The stylist’s assistants pinned my hair up, then took it down, then pinned it up again like they were searching for some secret formula. Oils were massaged into my scalp. Warm towels wrapped around my head. By the time they were done, my hair felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, someone richer, someone who never worked a day in the lower chamber.

Then came the face.

Layers and layers of powder, cream, color. My cheeks got dusted until they were warm roses, my lips painted in a shade so deep it almost scared me. They did something to my eyes that made them look bigger and darker than I’d ever seen. It could be eye liner? Eye shadow? Or even magic?

“Don’t blink,” the stylist ordered as she came in with a tiny brush near my lashes.

“I’m trying not to, but my eyeballs don’t know the rules,” I muttered.

Again, no reaction.

When my face was finally “acceptable,” they brought in the dress.

I didn’t think I’d ever touched fabric so soft in my life. It wasn’t just smooth; it was liquid in my hands, like it had been woven from moonlight and whispered secrets. Deep blue, almost black, with threads of silver running through it like frozen lightning.

They slid it over my head carefully, then tugged and adjusted until it fit me like it had been made just for me, which, judging by the measurements earlier, it probably had. The neckline dipped just low enough to make me feel nervous, and the skirt brushed the floor, hiding my bare feet.

“Shoes,” the stylist snapped, and another assistant appeared with a box. Inside were silver heels, delicate straps glinting in the light.

“I don’t wear—”

“You do now,” she cut in.

So I did.

Jewelry came next, a necklace heavy enough to remind me with every breath that it was there, earrings that sparkled like they’d been stolen from the stars. The stylist clasped a silver bracelet around my wrist, then stepped back and studied me like I was a painting she was signing her name on.

Laura Maria finally moved from the doorway, heels clicking against the marble as she approached. Her eyes swept over me, slow and deliberate.

“Better,” she said, lips curling into the faintest smile.

“Better for what?” I asked again.

She tilted her head like she might actually answer this time, but instead she said, “Something special.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“It tells you exactly as much as you need to know right now.”

And that was it. She turned away, signaling for the assistants to pack up.

When they were gone, I caught my reflection in the tall mirror across the room. For a second, I didn’t recognize her,  the girl staring back at me.

She had my eyes, but sharper. My mouth, but painted into something… dangerous. My hair gleamed in soft waves, pinned with silver that caught the light when I moved. The dress hugged me like I was someone important, someone worth looking at twice.

I looked… noble.

And it scared the hell out of me.

Because I knew who I was. I was Kieran Medici,  lower chamber omega, unofficial palace screw-up, rejected mate of Alpha Colten. No amount of makeup or silk was going to change that.

I tore my gaze from the mirror and sat down on the edge of the bed, the skirt pooling around me like spilled ink.

That’s when the knock came.

Not the soft, polite kind. Two sharp raps, deliberate and loud enough to make me flinch.

Laura Maria crossed the room and opened the door. A young servant stood there, wide-eyed, holding a silver tray.

On the tray sat a single envelope. Thick, cream-colored, sealed with deep red wax stamped in the shape of a wolf’s head.

“Who is it for?” Laura Maria asked, already taking it.

The servant swallowed. “It’s addressed to the Future Luna.”

My heart slammed into my ribs.

Laura Maria’s eyes flicked to me, then back to the envelope. She didn’t hand it over right away, instead she broke the seal herself and slid out the folded paper inside.

She read it quickly, her face giving away nothing. Then she refolded it, tucked it back into the envelope, and placed it in my hands.

“Read it,” she said.

The paper smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. The handwriting was sharp and deliberate, each letter like it had been carved instead of written.

Be ready. You will be presented before the Alpha tonight.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Presented.

Before Colten.

Again.

I thought my stomach might actually crawl up my throat.

Laura Maria was still watching me, her expression somewhere between satisfied and curious, like she was waiting to see if I’d scream or faint or run.

“What… what is this?” My voice didn’t sound like mine, too thin, too small.

“This,” she said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in my skirt, “is why we made you ready. Well, on the outside at least.”

The silver bracelet on my wrist suddenly felt like a shackle. The necklace, a chain. The dress, a trap.

She stood, straightened her spine, and smiled.

“Welcome back to the game, Kieran Medici.”

I gripped the letter so tightly the paper creased in my hand, and the only thing running through my mind was that I was being dressed up not for some “special” mystery, but to be paraded in front of the man who had called me a wretch to my face.

And the worst part?

I had no idea why.