Under His Watchful Eyes
The black suit was still sharp, but my eyes were bloodshot, and the skin beneath them looked like gray ash.
I turned the faucet, letting the water run as cold as it would go.
I splashed it over my face, the shock of it clearing the last of the grief. I dried my skin and pulled a small concealer stick from my bag, one of Sarah’s previous attempts to make me look professional. I painted over the bruising under my eyes, blended the red marks on my jaw where Julian had gripped me, and reapplied the nude lipstick.
Finally, I checked my reflection. The mask was back in place. Cold, smooth, and unbreakable.