Erasure

The hairdresser arrived at eight AM on day two.

I sat in the chair my father had set up in the bathroom while a woman named Rita mixed chemicals in a bowl. The smell made my nose burn.

"Darker," my father said from the doorway. "His hair is too light. Marcus's is almost black."

Rita nodded and added more dye.

I watched in the mirror as she painted the mixture through my hair. Dark brown spreading over the honey color I'd had my whole life. The color my grandmother said reminded her of autumn leaves.

"Close your eyes," Rita said.

I did. Felt the cold paste against my scalp. Felt myself disappearing.

Forty minutes later, I looked like a stranger.

"Better," my father said. He handed Rita an envelope of cash. "Not a word about this to anyone."

After she left, I touched my hair. It felt the same. But the face looking back at me in the mirror wasn't mine anymore.

Day two was worse.

My father brought in a man named Richard. Acting coach. He'd worked in theater for twenty years before retiring.

"Show me how you walk," Richard said.

I walked across the study. Normal. The way I always walked.

"No. No, no, no." Richard shook his head. "You glide. Like you're trying not to be noticed. Marcus stomps. He owns every room he enters. Again."

I tried. Walked heavier.

"Shoulders back. Chin up. You're too soft. Marcus takes up space. Demand attention."

We did this for three hours. Walking. Standing. Sitting.

"You perch in chairs like a bird," Richard said. "Marcus sprawls. Legs wide. Arm over the back. He's comfortable everywhere because everywhere belongs to him."

My legs ached from holding positions that felt wrong. My face hurt from practicing Marcus's loud laugh.

"Your voice is too quiet. Marcus talks over people. Projects. Commands."

By the end of day two, I couldn't remember how I used to stand.

Day three was Marcus's signature.

My father laid out documents. Bank statements. Old contracts. All with Marcus's scrawl across the bottom.

"Practice," he said.

I sat at the desk with a stack of blank paper. Copied the signature over and over.

Marcus Laurent. Marcus Laurent. Marcus Laurent.

My hand cramped after an hour. I kept going.

The M was too big. The L looped wrong. The final T had to slash down aggressively.

Marcus Laurent. Marcus Laurent.

By evening, my hand shook so badly I could barely hold the pen.

My mother brought dinner to my room that night. Pasta I couldn't taste.

She sat on the edge of my bed while I ate. Didn't say anything. Just sat there.

"I can't do this," I whispered.

"I know."

"Then why..."

"Because he'll destroy you if you don't." She touched my new dark hair. Her eyes filled with tears. "Your father did this to me too. Made me into what he needed. I'm so sorry, Felix. I'm so sorry I can't protect you."

She held me while I cried. Like she used to when I was little and scared of thunderstorms.

"Three years," she whispered. "Then you're free. Promise me you'll remember who you really are."

I couldn't promise that. I was already forgetting.

Day four, I opened Marcus's closet.

Designer suits in blacks and grays and navy. Silk ties. Italian leather shoes worth more than my art supplies.

I pulled out a suit. Armani. The jacket felt heavy. Expensive.

I put it on. The fabric was so soft it felt wrong against my skin. Like wearing someone else's life.

The cologne was on the dresser. Some brand I didn't recognize. I sprayed it once.

My eyes watered immediately. Too strong. Too much. But this was what Marcus smelled like. What I had to smell like now.

I stood in front of the mirror. Dark hair. Expensive suit. Cologne that made me want to gag.

The person looking back at me wasn't Felix Laurent.

Maybe that was the point.

Day five, the phone call.

My father handed me his cell. "Damien Cross's assistant is calling to confirm wedding details. You're Marcus. Don't forget."

I took the phone. My hand was sweating.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Laurent?" A woman's voice. Professional. Clipped. "This is Victoria Chen, Mr. Cross's executive assistant. I'm calling to confirm arrangements for Saturday."

"Right. Yes. The wedding." My voice came out wrong. Too soft. I cleared my throat. Tried again. Deeper. "The wedding. Saturday."

"Are you all right, Mr. Laurent? You sound different."

My heart stopped.

"New phone," I said quickly. Forced my voice lower. "Bad reception."

Silence on the other end. Too long.

"I see," she said finally. "The ceremony is at three PM. Small gathering, immediate family only per the contract. Mr. Cross will send a car for you at one."

"Fine. That's fine."

"Do you have any questions about the arrangements?"

A thousand questions. None I could ask.

"No. It's all... fine."

Another pause.

"Very well. We'll see you Saturday, Mr. Laurent."

She hung up. I stood there holding the phone, my whole body shaking.

"Well?" My father was watching me.

"She thought I sounded different."

"Did she believe the phone excuse?"

"I don't know."

My father took his phone back. "You need to be more careful. Practice the voice more. Lower. Confident. You sound like you're asking permission to exist."

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I went downstairs to my father's study. Found the fireplace cold and dark.

The acceptance letter was still in my robe pocket. I'd been carrying it for days. Reading it when no one was watching.

I took it out now. Unfolded it one last time.

*Dear Mr. Felix Laurent, we are pleased to offer you...*

I struck a match. Held it to the corner of the paper.

The flame caught. Spread. Turned the words to black ash.

I watched my future burn.

École des Beaux-Arts. The studio with northern light. The cafes where artists gathered. The Louvre at sunrise.

All of it turning to smoke.

When the last piece crumbled, I went back upstairs.

My room was full of Marcus's things now. His clothes in the closet. His cologne on the dresser. His signature in my muscle memory.

I had one thing left that was mine.

My sketchbook. The small one I always carried. I'd filled it with drawings over the years. The view from my window. My mother's hands. Street scenes from the city.

I couldn't take it with me. Someone would find it. Someone would know.

But I couldn't burn it either.

I opened my suitcase. The one packed for the honeymoon I didn't want. Found the inside lining.

There was a pocket. Small. Hidden.

I slid the sketchbook inside. Zipped it closed.

One piece of Felix Laurent, hidden where Marcus would never look.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Unknown number.

I picked it up. Read the message.

*I know what you're doing. This won't end well. S.M.*

My blood went cold.

S.M.

Someone knew.

Someone was watching.

And they were going to make sure I paid for it.