Nevara
The room was a flurry of motion—brushes swiping, curling irons sizzling, silk and chiffon laid out across every surface like a battlefield of beauty.
Sabrina had vanished the moment she’d dragged me in, leaving behind a squad of stylists who all worked in silent, focused chaos. A makeup artist dabbed something shimmery near the corners of my eyes while another fluffed my hair, murmuring about “volume and drama.” I wasn’t sure if they were talking about the look or the night ahead.
I exhaled slowly and glanced at my reflection. I didn’t even recognize the woman in the mirror yet—and the dress wasn’t even on.
“Lift your chin just a touch,” one of them murmured, painting something soft along my jawline.
Sure. Just paint the sacrificial lamb to perfection before you toss her to the
