AMARA The bright, studio-grade LED lights of the makeup artist’s ring-light snapped on with a sudden, aggressive click, blinding me in a wash of stark, unforgiving white. To Diva and Mara—the newly arrived makeup artist—it was just the start of a standard, high-profile glam session. To me, it felt like an interrogation lamp. It cast sharp, clinical shadows across the linoleum, exposing every flaw, every tremor, and every ounce of the terror I was desperately trying to bury beneath my skin. "Alright, gorgeous, let’s get you prepped," Mara said cheerfully. Her voice was bright, a jarring contrast to the heavy, lingering horror that still choked the air in the room. She unzipped a massive, multi-tiered cosmetics case. The sharp, mechanical clack-clack-clack of plastic dividers opening sounded violently loud, echoing in my ears like a weapon being loaded. I couldn't move. My fingers were still frozen around the edges of the salon chair, my knuckles aching from how hard I was grippi
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