The celebration couldn't have come early. In a literal blink, the grueling week evaporated, and before I could even process the sheer weight of what I was walking into, Saturday arrived. I found myself sitting frozen in the plush leather chair of the makeup studio, staring at my own reflection while the artist hummed a quiet tune, dusting a soft, shimmering powder across my cheekbones. My mind was a chaotic, spinning vacuum. Between my mother’s terrifying threats, the lie currently anchoring my survival, and the impending reality of the gala, my stomach was tied in a violent knot. I kept wondering, with a sort of detached, hollow dread, if I would even survive the night.
But when the artist finally stepped back and turned the grand mirror toward me, the breath completely died in my throat
