Page 59

The butter knife is still where I left it—tucked behind the sink pipe, untouched. Dry. Waiting.

I raise my eyes to the mirror. Bad move.

The woman staring back looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Hair wild, face pale, dark circles doing all the talking. The clothes hang loose—like I borrowed someone else’s life and it doesn’t fit right.

No makeup. No armor.

Just me.

I look... unfinished.

My chest tightens, and I glance down, focusing on the edge of the vanity.

Pretty girls get what they want. Ugly ones get sent back.

Mona’s voice slips through the cracks of my memory like smoke. I was too young to know better, too desperate to question her logic.

Your worth is in your beauty. Lose that, and you’re nothing.

I press my fingers into the counter to ground myself, but the words won’t shake loose. They cling like cheap perfume—sweet, poisonous, and impossible to forget.

She trained me to wear beauty like a weapon. Smile when it hurts. Pout when it’s useful. Never, ever let them see your real face.

But here it is. Unpainted. Exposed. The face that Mick chose to kiss.

And that’s not all that’s different. The voice that usually runs its mouth when I’m like this—that mean, familiar whisper that tells me I’m worthless, that I’ll ruin everything—it’s not shouting tonight.

It’s quiet.

Weirdly quiet.

Maybe she drowned in the marina instead of me?

Voices float through the cracked bathroom window. Male. Low. Serious.

“…a con artist. A highly skilled one. She fooled you once.”

Luke.

“And she won’t fool me again. I know when I’m being lied to.”

Mick.

I go still, my spine stiffening.

“Yeah. No. You don’t,” Luke shoots back. “She’s good, and your judgment is clouded. You’re falling for her.”

A pause. Then Mick: “Give me a break.”

“I’m not judging you. It happens. I fell for my fiancée on an op.”

Long silence. Too long.

“I have better judgment than to fall for her act again.”

Again.

The word slices deep.