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 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.
“Ready when you are, Gianna.”
The Edge of the Frame
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.
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.