The first thing I noticed about the makeup room wasn’t the mirrors.
It was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind—no, this silence was curated, expensive, controlled. The kind that swallowed secrets whole. Gold-trimmed walls reflected soft lighting, velvet chairs lined up neatly, perfume hanging heavy in the air. On the surface, it looked like a sanctuary built for beauty.
But I knew better.
There were cameras everywhere.
Tiny black dots tucked into corners, disguised as screws, air vents, decorative trims. Victor King never trusted anyone—not his stars, not his staff, not even his own reflection. Every breath taken in this room belonged to him.
I lowered my head and followed Aunt May inside, my posture obedient, shoulders slightly hunched. Temporary assistant. Disposable. Replaceable.
Invisible.
“Don’t touch anything you’re not told to,” the senior stylist snapped at me without looking.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said softly.
I hated how natural the lie felt.
Aunt May met my eyes briefly through the mirror. Just a flicker. Enough.
Sofia Ryan sat in the center chair like a queen carved from porcelain. Without the red carpet lights, she looked smaller. Fragile. Her silver robe slipped off one shoulder, collarbones sharp beneath pale skin.
Her smile in the mirror faltered when she saw me.
She knew.
I pretended not to notice.
I busied myself arranging brushes, sponges, powder trays—moving slowly, deliberately. My heart pounded against my ribs, counting seconds. Cameras. Timing. Distance.
Aunt May leaned in, dabbing concealer under Sofia’s eyes. “Long night,” she murmured kindly.
Sofia exhaled. “They all are.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she rested it on the counter.
That was when I saw it.
Her handbag sat half-open beside her chair—custom leather, gold clasp. Careless. Or maybe she wanted me to see.
I moved closer under the excuse of picking up a dropped brush. My fingers brushed the edge of the bag, slipped inside.
Cold metal kissed my skin.
A ring.
I drew it out just enough to see the engraving.
A single letter.
K.
My breath hitched.
The shard they’d found near my father’s body. The one the police had dismissed as debris. Same curve. Same cut.
Before I could react, fingers clamped around my wrist.
Hard.
I gasped softly.
Sofia leaned forward, her grip iron-tight despite her shaking hands. Her lips barely moved.
“I know who you are,” she whispered. “And… what happened back then—it wasn’t my choice.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
“What?” I breathed.
Her eyes filled with something raw. Panic. Guilt. Fear.
“I tried to say no,” she said quickly. “They don’t let you. Not him. Not ever.”
The door slammed open.
Victor King walked in like he owned the air.
Which he did.
Every muscle in my body locked as his shadow swallowed the room. He held something in his hand—a tablet. The screen glowed bright.
“Well,” he drawled, eyes flicking lazily over the room before settling on me. “What do we have here?”
Aunt May straightened instantly. “Mr. King, I wasn’t told—”
Victor raised a hand, silencing her without a glance. He stepped closer, holding the tablet up.
My face stared back at me.
Younger. Bruised. Broken.
A headline burned across the screen.
Rising Star Ella Cole Caught in Drug Scandal.
“Layla, was it?” Victor said pleasantly. “Or do you prefer your old name?”
My knees threatened to buckle.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammered, letting my voice shake, my hands tremble. I hated myself for how real it felt.
He smiled wider.
“Funny how trash always crawls back toward the light,” he continued. “You think cozying up to Sofia will get you somewhere? You should really look at your past before dreaming about a future.”
I swallowed hard, eyes darting, terrified.
Perfect.
Behind him, Sofia had gone deathly pale.
I let the ring slide into my palm and, with a practiced motion, dropped it into Aunt May’s open makeup case as I stumbled back.
“Oh!” Aunt May exclaimed loudly, knocking over a tray of blushes. Pink powder exploded across the counter, staining everything.
Chaos.
“Careful!” someone shouted.
“I’m so sorry!” I cried, crouching to help clean, my fingers brushing Aunt May’s wrist.
She leaned down, close enough for only me to hear.
“Tomorrow. Eight p.m.,” she murmured. “Old photo studio. Sunset Boulevard.”
I nodded once.
Victor watched me closely as I stood and hurried for the door, my head bowed.
Just as my hand touched the handle, his voice cut through the room.
“You’re just like your father,” he said casually. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
My blood turned to ice.
For one dangerous second, I considered turning around. Screaming. Lunging.
Instead, I froze—then forced myself to keep walking.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
In the hallway, my legs finally gave out. I pressed my back against the wall, breath coming in shallow gasps, nails biting into my palms.
My father hadn’t fallen.
He’d been pushed.
And Victor King knew it.
Whatever game he was playing, I had just stepped fully onto the board.
And this time, I wasn’t here to survive.
I was here to burn the whole damn thing down.