Sparkle and Crime

Lipstick and Last Straws

Chapter 1

Madeline had spent years mastering the art of silence. Smiling through whispers. Swallowing humiliation. Pretending she didn't know. That Richard wasn't just another overpaid, over-sexed man chasing youth to fill the hollowness inside him. That their marriage wasn't built on broken vows, backhanded compliments, and empty designer boxes.

But now, for the first time, she wasn't pretending.

A week had passed since she saw him with her—all taut limbs and baby skin and a look that said she hadn't been gutted by life yet. A week of white-hot rage boiling beneath the surface, untouchable by yoga, Pilates, or even the limited-edition Chanel bag she bought just to feel something. Nothing dulled it. Not the espresso, not the shopping, not the lies she told herself in the mirror.

Richard had drained everything: her patience, her bank accounts, her dignity.

And now, something inside her had snapped.

Maggie Rook, her best friend since college was already sliding her oversized sunglasses down her nose, eyeing the screen like it personally offended her. She looked like the 1980s Wonder Woman who had ditched the cape for couture—voluminous dark curls, red power blazer with gold buttons, curves that didn't ask permission, and a presence that said I dare you to lie to me.

"I wasn't—" Madeline began.

"You so were. And let's be honest, you wouldn't last five minutes in prison. They don't serve truffle aioli or stock Chanel No. 5 in commissary."

Madeline gave her a look, but her laugh cracked through anyway. "What do you suggest, Maggie? Divorce? Mediation? I don't want a payout. I want his soul on a plate with a sprig of rosemary."

Maggie's expression shifted into something sly. Something dangerous.

She reached into her lilac Balenciaga tote—big enough to hide secrets—and pulled out a slim envelope as she sat down beside her friend. On the front, written in inky cursive, was a single name and an untraceable number.

"What's this?"

"A better option," Maggie said, like she'd just offered her a platinum credit card. "I know someone that doesn't deal in legalities. They deal in... closures."

Madeline took the envelope. It felt warm, like it had been waiting for her.

"And this is a friend of yours," she said carefully, "they won't ask a lot of questions?"

"They ask one," Maggie said, slipping her sunglasses back on. "Are you sure?"

Madeline stared down at the envelope in her pristine manicured hands. Her reflection in the café window looked deceptively calm, like she was just another socialite planning a fundraiser brunch. But beneath the blush-toned gloss and diamond studs, something darker coiled.

"I'm sure," she whispered.

Maggie smirked. "Good. Because the way you were going, you were about five minutes from starring in a prison documentary. And let's be real, Madeline—we both know you only wear pink."

Madeline rolled her eyes, but her grip on the note tightened.

Maggie's gaze softened—just slightly. "I'm serious. You scare easy. You cry when your mascara runs. And you think 'intimidating' means walking faster in heels." She reached out, straightened Madeline's collar like a reflex. "So if you're really doing this, don't play brave. Call me first. I clean up all the messes, remember?"

Madeline opened her mouth to protest, but Maggie cut her off with a raised brow.

"I'm not saying you can't do it," Maggie added, voice low and sharp. "I'm saying if you're going to light the match, you better have someone holding the extinguisher."

That was enough to undo her.

Madeline leaned closer and wrapped her arms around Maggie, burying her face in the familiar scent of vanilla, espresso, and a hint of clove. "Thank you," she whispered, the words barely audible against Maggie's coat. "I'm scared."

Maggie sighed, arms folding around her in return. "Of course you are. You should be." She pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "But you're not alone. Got it?"

Madeline nodded, blinking fast.

"Good." Maggie smoothed a hand over her hair, then gave her a playful swat on the arm. "Now go on before you start crying and ruin your concealer. I have a kitchen to check on before someone burns the béchamel."

Madeline laughed, the tension easing just a little.

"I think I'm going to window shop a bit. Clear my head," she said, tucking the note deeper into her Louis Vuitton bag.

"But you something cute, you deserve it," Maggie suggested, already halfway to the door. "And don't talk to anyone who looks like they've watched Breaking Bad more than once."

Madeline smiled and gave a mock salute. "Yes, Mom."

Maggie shot her a grin before disappearing back inside Fireside Flavors, heels clicking with practiced authority.

Madeline didn't move right away.

She just stood there—perfectly still on the sidewalk—while the world spun past her in glitzy shades of apathy. Traffic hummed, the scent of roasted garlic drifted from Fireside's kitchen vents, and someone nearby was laughing far too loudly.

It all felt distant.

Inside, something was fraying.

She slipped into the alley beside the café, her heels clicking softly against the cobblestone until she was alone in the quiet pocket between buildings.

Her back hit the brick wall.

And she exhaled—finally.

Her breath shook on the way out, and for the first time in years, Madeline didn't try to fix her expression. She let it fall. The weight of everything she had been holding in—resentment, betrayal, bone-deep loneliness—settled into her bones like concrete.

She didn't cry. She didn't scream.

She just... let go.

Of the smile she wore like armor.

Of the lie she lived like a lifestyle.

Of the hope that he might change.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her compact, but not for touch-ups. She stared at her reflection. Watched her mascara smudge just slightly at the corners. Her lipstick faded. Her eyes raw and rimmed in quiet fury.

And for the first time, she didn't fix it.

She closed the mirror.

Slid the compact back into her bag.

Straightened her coat.

Then she took one slow step forward.

A second.

A third.

The heels clicked again—this time, deliberate. Grounded. Like punctuation marks on the page of a new chapter.

She emerged from the alley like a woman reborn. Not from grace. From grit.

Then she saw Luxe Sparkle across the street.

And everything snapped into place.

Madeline pulled her coat tighter and glanced down the street. The lights of the boutique windows glittered like promises, soft and inviting. With the weight of the note still pressed against her leg, she turned and headed toward the shops, the night cool and quiet around her.

She stepped off the sidewalk in front of Fireside Flavors and walked across the street to the many shop fronts, Maggie's parting words still echoing in her mind like a slow, promising curse.

The note she'd been given felt radioactive in her coat pocket—small, folded, and burning like a brand against her thigh. Whatever this was... Maggie wasn't letting her walk into it alone. She never had. And she never would.

The city glittered around her like it didn't know her world was cracking. Streetlights blinked on, one by one, and the shadows grew long.

Her heels struck the pavement with new intent—less like accessories, more like weapons. Each step was a vow: never again. Never smaller. Never silent.

A breeze caught the edge of her coat as she passed shop windows glowing with curated perfection—mannequins in slinky dresses, watches priced like mortgages, expensive shoes she already owned in two colors. Everything designed to distract. To numb.

For years, it had worked.

But tonight, the shimmer didn't soothe her.

She wasn't looking for distraction.

She was looking for a reason.

She paused at the window of a boutique she used to love—Céline, draped in soft golds and creams. Once, she would've walked in and dropped five grand without blinking, just to fill the space between rage and resignation.

Now? She didn't even glance twice.

Let him keep the shiny things. The illusion of power. She was done decorating a cage.

Her fingers drifted to the note in her pocket again. Still there. Still warm. Like a match waiting to be struck.

What kind of woman calls a number like that?

The kind who's done being lied to.

The kind who's already buried the old version of herself.

The kind who walks through fire, not around it.

She was almost to the crosswalk when her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

If it was Richard—good. Let him wonder. Let him feel a sliver of the confusion he'd fed her for years.

The light turned. She stepped off the curb.

And that's when she saw it.

Polished windows. Gilded handles.

Luxe Sparkle.

A jewelry store that had once felt like a promise and now felt like a graveyard of bad decisions.

Her breath caught—but not from pain.

From clarity.

Because through the glass, caught in the soft glow of chandelier light and a thousand cold carats—was Richard.

And he wasn't alone.

Beside him, like a parody of innocence, was Jenna. Again.

Same badly faded,bottle-dyed brunette hair. Same stupid giggle. Same hand on his chest like she was trying to claim property she didn't even own.

Madeline stopped cold.

Then she walked inside.

No, she marched—every heel click a warning, every step a blade.

Her reflection caught in the glass door: sharp lines, hot pink lips, controlled fury.

She didn't even recognize herself.

But she liked it.

She entered without a word, letting the door close behind her like a judge's gavel.

"Richard," she said.

Low. Icy. Final.

He turned—and flinched. Not much. Just a twitch in the jaw. A flicker of guilt in those green eyes.

But she saw it.

"Madeline," he said too quickly. "This is Jenna—my, uh, new assistant. She needed a necklace clasp repaired and, well, I figured I'd—"

She held up a hand, palm out. A clean, sharp gesture. "Stop embarrassing both of us."

Jenna paled.

"I—I should probably go," the girl stammered, already taking a step back. "I didn't know—"

"No," Madeline cut in, voice syrup-sweet and cutting. "You didn't. Because he was busy dipping his pen into the company ink again."

Jenna's eyes darted toward Richard.

Madeline gave her a once-over—slow and merciless. Skirt too tight. Shoes cheap. Lipstick smudged like she'd been kissed in a rush, or worse—by someone careless.

"I hope he bought you dinner first," Madeline added. "He's always been generous with other people's money."

Jenna's cheeks flushed scarlet. "I'm sorry," she whispered, ducking her head like she'd just been handed a Bible and told to repent.

She left without another word.

The silence that followed felt sacred.

"You're making a scene," Richard hissed, the mask dropping. "Acting like a jealous little girl who got her toys taken away."

Madeline smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. Slow.

"Oh, darling," she said, stepping closer, "I had to buy more toys the day I married you."

He scoffed, brushing past her like he hadn't just been publicly gutted. "You're losing it, Madeline. No one's on your side anymore. You'll end up alone."

He bumped her shoulder on his way out—intentional. Petty. The kind of man who still thought hurting her made him powerful.

Madeline didn't turn. Didn't flinch.

She just watched his reflection fade in the mirror behind the counter as he strutted across the street to Sly Spirits—that same dingy bar where dreams went to die and Richard went to pretend he was still twenty-five.

He reeked of cheap perfume and cheaper choices.

She waited until he was out of sight before reaching into her bag.

Pulled out her lipstick—powerful pink armor.

Applied it with slow, practiced precision.

In the mirror, she meticulously applied the lipstick to her perfectly plump lips, then slowly smoothed them together.

One – Chin up.

Two – Shoulders back.

Three – He doesn't get to define you.

Four – Let him drown in his own mediocrity.

Five – Smile. This is the beginning, not the end.

When she turned to leave, the staff parted like the Red Sea. No one spoke. No one dared.

You don't interrupt a woman mid-resurrection.

Outside, the air was cool. Clean.

The city buzzed, unaware that something inside her had shifted for good.

She touched the note in her coat pocket. The number. The name.

And this time, she smiled.

Tomorrow, she would make the call.She just watched his reflection fade in the mirror behind the counter as he strutted across the street to Sly Spirits—that same dingy bar where dreams went to die and Richard went to pretend he was still twenty-five.

He reeked of cheap perfume and cheaper choices.

She waited until he was out of sight before reaching into her bag.

Pulled out her lipstick—powerful pink armor.

Applied it with slow, practiced precision.

In the mirror, she meticulously applied the lipstick to her perfectly plump lips, then slowly rubbed them together.

One – Chin up.

Two – Shoulders back.

Three – He doesn't get to define you.

Four – Let him drown in his own mediocrity.

Five – Smile. This is the beginning, not the end.

When she turned to leave, the staff parted like the Red Sea. No one spoke. No one dared.

You don't interrupt a woman mid-resurrection.

Outside, the air was cool. Clean.

The city buzzed, unaware that something inside her had shifted for good.

She touched the note in her coat pocket. The number. The name.

And this time, she smiled.

Tomorrow, she would make the call.