Chapter 09 (Part 02)

The makeover started with my hair, and Layla approached it with the focus of an artist approaching a blank canvas.

She had me sit on the floor in front of the full-length mirror, my legs crossed and my back straight, while she worked with her arsenal of tools like a woman on a mission. The implements were spread across my dresser like surgical instruments: curling irons in three different sizes, brushes that looked more expensive than my rent, products in sleek bottles that promised transformation with names like "Texture Spray" and "Heat Protectant" and "Miracle Shine."

"Hold still," she murmured, sectioning my hair with the kind of precision that suggested she'd done this before—probably for other friends, other transformations, other nights when someone needed to remember who they were underneath the weight of their daily lives.

She started at the back, lifting sections of my hair and wrapping them around the barrel of the curling iron. The heat warmed my scalp, and I could smell the faint chemical sweetness of the products she'd sprayed through my strands. Each curl bounced as she released it, creating soft, loose waves that framed my face—nothing too dramatic, nothing that screamed "trying too hard," just enough to make me feel… different.

As she worked, she talked, her voice falling into the rhythm of our old friendship.

"Remember freshman year when you had that crush on what's-his-name from your literature class?"

"Marcus," I supplied automatically, surprised I remembered.

"Right, Marcus. God, you were so gone for that guy. You'd spend hours getting ready just to sit three rows behind him and never say a word."

The memory surfaced like something from someone else's life. Had I really been that girl once? The one who believed in the power of the perfect outfit, who thought that maybe if I just tried hard enough, I could become someone worth noticing?

"What happened to him?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Last I heard, he was selling insurance in Nebraska and had gone completely bald." She tugged gently at a section of my hair, testing the curl. "Dodged a bullet there."

"Definitely." But even as I laughed, I felt a pang of something that might have been nostalgia—not for Marcus specifically, but for the girl who'd believed that romance was possible, that transformation was just a curling iron and some confidence away.

When she finished with my hair, she stepped back to assess her work, her head tilted at an angle that reminded me of a photographer studying their subject.

"Perfect. Now for the real magic."

Then came the makeup, and this was where Layla truly shined.

She started with primer, squeezing a small amount onto the back of her hand and warming it between her fingers before applying it to my skin. Her touch was gentle but sure, blending the product into my face like she was painting on confidence one careful stroke at a time.

"You have amazing bone structure," she said, her voice taking on the focused tone she used when she was concentrating. "Like, criminally underrated cheekbones. I don't know why you spend so much time trying to hide them."

"I usually hide them under exhaustion and bad lighting."

"Well, tonight they're going to make grown men weep actual tears."

The foundation came next, applied with a damp beauty sponge that she bounced across my skin in a pattern that seemed almost meditative. I watched her work in the mirror, seeing my face transform gradually under her careful attention. The circles under my eyes disappeared, my skin took on an even, luminous quality, and suddenly I looked like someone who got eight hours of sleep and remembered to drink water.

Then came the contouring—a process I'd only ever seen in YouTube videos and had always assumed was beyond my skill level. But Layla wielded the brushes like weapons, creating shadows and highlights that seemed to restructure my entire face. My cheekbones became more pronounced, my jawline sharper, my nose somehow more refined.

"How do you even know how to do this?" I asked, genuinely amazed as I watched my face change in real time.

"YouTube University, baby. Plus, I may have briefly considered becoming a makeup artist before I decided I liked having weekends."

She applied blush to the apples of my cheeks, a soft peachy color that made me look like I'd just come in from a walk in cool air, and then came the highlighter—a soft golden powder that caught the light every time I tilted my face. The effect was subtle but transformative, like someone had installed better lighting inside my skin.

When she lined my eyes, she leaned in close, her concentration absolute. The liquid liner was dark and precise, extending slightly beyond the corner of each eye in a way that made them look larger, more mysterious.

"You have those sad, mysterious eyes," she said, her voice quiet with focus. "The kind that make people want to know what happened to you, what secrets you're keeping."

I blinked carefully, testing the weight of the liner. "That's either romantic or really concerning."

"Both." She grinned and reached for the mascara. "The best kind of mysterious is always a little concerning."

The mascara was applied in layers, each coat making my lashes longer and darker until they looked like something out of an old Hollywood photograph. Then came the eyeshadow—subtle browns and golds that deepened the color of my eyes without looking obvious.

Finally, she worked on my lips, using a liner that was darker than my natural color to reshape them slightly, making them look fuller and more defined. The lipstick that followed was a deep, wine-colored red that made my teeth look whiter and my skin look porcelain-pale in comparison.

When she was done, she stepped back, hands on her hips, studying her work with the critical eye of an artist.

"Alright. You ready for the reveal?"

I stood slowly, my heart beating faster than it should have been. The heels Layla had somehow smuggled into her bag along with the dress made me taller, changed the way I carried myself, forced my shoulders back and my spine straight.

And stared at the girl in the mirror.

It wasn't me.

Or maybe it was—the version of me that existed in some parallel universe where confidence came easy and guilt didn't live behind my ribs like a constant companion. Where I didn't second-guess every decision, where I didn't apologize for taking up space, where I didn't fade into the background of my own life.

The dress clung to me in all the right places, hugging the curve of my hips and dipping just enough to show I had something worth looking at without being obvious about it. The black fabric seemed to absorb light and reflect it back in different ways, making me look like I was lit from within. My legs looked longer than usual in the strappy black heels, and the way the dress hit my thighs made me look like someone who belonged in expensive places.

My collarbones shimmered with a dusting of highlighter that caught the apartment's overhead light. My lips looked like a sin someone would beg to commit, and my eyes seemed to hold secrets I wasn't even sure I possessed.

I didn't look like Killian Vale's assistant—the woman who jumped when his intercom buzzed, who brought him coffee and organized his schedule and tried to make herself invisible.

I didn't look like the girl who flinched at the sound of raised voices or who had trained herself to need nothing from anyone.

I looked… free.

The realization hit me like a breath I'd been holding for months finally released. This woman in the mirror looked like she made her own decisions, like she knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. She looked like someone who laughed easily and loved deeply and didn't apologize for existing.

Layla whistled low and appreciative. "Girl. If you don't leave this apartment tonight, I'm calling the FBI and reporting a crime against humanity."

I turned slowly in the mirror, watching the dress move with me, seeing how the light played across the fabric and my skin. The woman looking back at me was a stranger, but she was also familiar in a way that made my chest tight with something that might have been recognition.

"This doesn't feel like me."

The words came out quieter than I'd intended, carrying more weight than I'd meant to give them.

Layla stepped behind me, meeting my gaze in the glass. Her reflection looked softer than usual, more serious, and when she spoke, her voice was gentle. "That's because you've forgotten what you feels like."

The statement settled over me like a blanket, warm and uncomfortable at the same time. When had I lost track of myself? When had I become so focused on who I needed to be that I'd forgotten who I was?

I swallowed hard, tasting the unfamiliar waxy sweetness of the lipstick.

She nudged my shoulder gently, the touch grounding me in the moment. "Let's go find her."

As we walked toward the door, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and glanced at the time. The numbers glowed back at me in stark white: 8:52 p.m.

The night hadn't even begun, but already I felt like I was stepping into someone else's life. The apartment around me looked the same—the same furniture I'd picked out carefully and practically, the same books lined up on the shelves, the same photos in their matching frames—but I felt different inside it, like I was seeing it all through someone else's eyes.

But something in my chest already felt lighter, like a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying had shifted, making room for something that might have been possibility.

I hadn't smiled this much in days. Maybe weeks. The muscles in my face felt strange, unused to the expression, but it was a good strange—like waking up after a long sleep and stretching muscles you'd forgotten you had.

As Layla opened the door, letting in the sound of the city beyond—car horns and distant music and the hum of people living their Saturday night lives—I hesitated.

"To what club are we exactly going again?"

She looked back at me, and her grin was wicked in a way that made my stomach flutter with anticipation and terror in equal measure.

"One where only rich people come to bang a hottie like you."

The words hung in the air between us, loaded with possibilities I wasn't sure I was ready for but couldn't deny I was curious about.

And just like that—my quiet, healing weekend shattered under the weight of strappy heels, wine-dark lipstick, and bass-heavy music waiting just beyond the city lights, ready to remake me into someone I'd forgotten I could be.