Damien

HANNAH SITS in a simmering silence that would intimidate anyone. Makeup artists blot fuzzy brushes to her face. A man behind her clamps a strand of her hair between an iron. And another tapes a wire underneath the strap of her blouse. Sitting on a black swivel chair, the bottoms of her

flayed pantsuit reach the ends of her thin stilettos.

She hasn't said a single word since entering backstage over an hour ago,

and I know she must be planning something, not that she's going to share anything with me. She distinctly left that part out last night when she blew up my entire world to splinters, then informed me to go about our presentation as normal.

Do you trust me? she had asked.

And I didn't hesitate then, and I won't now, even before dozens of live- recording cameras and thousands in the audience.

Mysterious schemes rage behind her eyes like dark tides of the sea, hinting at the rarely seen danger inside the woman before me, making me question who it really is I'm in love with... It's