I don’t answer right away. I look at the woman in the mirror—the one with the sharp cheekbones and the quiet fire behind her irises. She’s won every war she’s ever fought. She’ll win this one, too.
I lean forward, tracing the edge of my lip with the tip of a brush, steady as a surgeon. In the reflection, my eyes are already doing the work—that half-lidded, I-know-something-you-don’t gaze that built my name. But tonight, the secret isn’t a script. It’s the silence in the room.
Because I do.
I stand up, barefoot, and walk toward the door. The floor is cold, but I don’t shiver. I open it. The lights are blinding. The room holds its breath.
They think this is easy. They see the final product, the polished sin of it, and assume it’s just instinct. But this is a craft. It’s knowing how to angle my spine so the light hits the curve of my hip like a question. It’s the pause before a smile, the beat where I look away first. That’s the real trick. Making them believe they’re the hunter, when I’ve been the trap all along. gianna dior pov
I untie the robe. Let it slide down my arms like a curtain rising.
The makeup mirror is a ring of unforgiving light, but I’ve made peace with it. It doesn’t lie, and neither do I. Not anymore. I don’t answer right away
A knock on the door. Soft. Respectful.