Syria’s POV
I thought we were finally leaving.
But no. They had only finished dressing me.
“Call in the makeup artist,” the lead servant instructed.
Without hesitation, the other maids rushed out. Moments later, they returned with a woman I hadn’t seen before. She looked polished and efficient, followed closely by two assistants dragging heavy black cases full of makeup and styling tools.
“You’ll take care of her,” the servant said, stepping aside. “Sir Steven said she must look proper. Presentable.”
The makeup artist nodded. “Of course. Leave it to us.”
They guided me to a cushioned chair in front of a large vanity mirror, its frame lit with bright bulbs that made the room glow. As I sat down, a knot formed in my stomach. The mirror reflected a girl I barely recognized.
Lipsticks.
