The morning light filtered through lace curtains, bathing Annette’s bedroom in soft gold. She sat at her vanity, meticulously applying foundation to her cheekbones, her expression smooth and practiced. The air was quiet, save for the gentle scrape of her makeup brush against the compact.
Each movement she made was precise, almost calculated, as if perfection could be summoned through powder and patience. Her back was straight, shoulders held taut with tension she didn’t acknowledge. It was muscle memory now—the act of performing control, grace, poise.
A sharp voice echoed from down the hallway. “Annette! Come help me pick an outfit!”
She didn’t pause. Her voice was gentle when she replied, “Coming!”
The moment the words left her lips, her expression shifted.
Her eyes turned cold, then
