Page 74 of Vendetta Crown

Time seems to stretch and compress as they work. I feel them contouring my cheekbones, higher and more pronounced, just like Mom's. The brush tickles as they add fine lines around my eyes and mouth.

"I'm adding the beauty mark now," the artist says after what feels like hours.

I nod, eyes still closed, as I feel the tiny dot being placed on my right cheek. Mom's signature mark, the one that my little brother and I used to tease her about when we were little.

The hair stylist works simultaneously, pinning and spraying, transforming my dirty blonde locks into Mom's signature style.

Someone else works on my hands, making them look older with subtle veining and spots.

"Almost done," the makeup artist eventually says. "Just a few final touches."

I feel a light dusting of powder, a gentle dab of something on my lips. Memories swirl behind my closed eyelids. Mom at the kitchen counter, cooking Sunday breakfast. Mom scolding me for sneaking out to meet Kristofer when she told me not to. Mom hugging me when I cried after a bad audition.

"You can open your eyes now," the makeup artist finally says, stepping back.

I hesitate, suddenly terrified of what I'll see.

When I finally open my eyes, the world stops.

"Mom," tumbles from my lips before I can stop myself.

It's her face. The one I've seen a thousand times in my dreams. The gentle laugh lines around her eyes. The way her lips naturally curved up at the corners. Even the tiny scar on her forehead from when she fell off her bike as a teenager.

Silent tears track down my face, disturbing the careful makeup. But I can't stop staring at the ghost in the mirror.

For a wild, desperate moment, I find myself wishing the reflection would reach out and close the impossible distance between us. That somehow she could step through the glass and wrap me in one of her all-encompassing hugs.

The kind that made everything better, even when my world was falling apart.

Just one more hug. One more opportunity to hear her laugh. One more chance to tell her I love her.

But that's never going to happen again.

"I miss her so much," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Especially now, with the babies coming." I touch my stomach instinctively. "She would have been so excited to be a grandmother."

The makeup artist squeezes my shoulder gently. "I can tell she raised a strong woman. Not everyone could do what you're doing."

"Sometimes I'm afraid I'll forget what she looked like," I admit, still staring at the mirror.

I touch the mirror, my fingertips pressing against the cool glass.

"But seeing myself like this, it brings it all back. It's like she's here, for just a moment."

The makeup artist hands me a tissue, and I dab carefully at my eyes, trying not to smudge her incredible work.

"Thank you. Not just for the makeup, but for... bringing her back to me, even if it's just for today."

I turn toward the set where the fake Kansas City home waits for me. Earlier, the sight of it brought me to my knees. But now as I walk toward it, something shifts inside me.

The fear is still there—I doubt it will ever fully disappear—but alongside it burns something new. Something stronger.

Determination.

Each step feels purposeful as I approach the set. Those painted blood-red letters no longer paralyze me with terror. They fuel me.

Look what you made me do.

No, you bastard. Look what I'm about to do.

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