The morning air clung to Mya’s skin like damp paper, sticky and heavy, as she stood in front of the cracked mirror above her dresser. Her reflection wavered in the imperfect glass, but she studied it as if she were preparing for battle.
Her wardrobe was a patchwork of survival: last year’s dresses that she’d kept carefully pressed, hand-me-down blouses she’d altered with clumsy stitches, skirts that had been shortened to hide frayed hems. She tugged at the hem of her navy dress now, smoothing it over her thighs. The fabric was serviceable, not luxurious, but at least it was clean and neat.
She applied her makeup with the same precision she had once reserved for Damon’s dinner parties. A thin line of eyeliner, powder to dim the shadows beneath her eyes, a sweep of rose lipstick. Her hand
