Page 7 of Hero After Midnight (Gibson Hollow)

Alia

T he night of the masquerade party, Blair had half my hair twisted into pin curls and a dozen open makeup palettes spread across her desk like some kind of Impressionist orgy when I finally let myself breathe.

Her apartment was warm with lamplight, music pulsing low, something upbeat and glittery, like it had just stepped out of a New York drag revue and wanted to take the world dancing.

It suited her. It made me smile. The kind of real, down-in-my-bones smile that had felt rare lately. Uncle Dee would approve.

The smell of setting spray and setting powder mixed with the faint cinnamon of the tea she’d forced into my hand an hour ago.

It felt like we were inside a snow globe—self-contained, still.

Bodie hadn’t said anything about tonight, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have thoughts.

Twinsense didn’t lie. He didn’t approve.

Not that he didn’t think I could or should go out.

He just worried. But he’d elected not to hover, and for that I was grateful.

He’d texted this afternoon that he was taking the car, and I hadn’t asked why.

Blair was doing me a solid, not only by being my own personal fairy godmother, but by loaning me her car, so I wouldn’t be stranded if I wanted to leave at any point.

She tugged gently at a pinned curl. “You’re not allowed to look until I’m done. No mirror cheating.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good. I want you to get the full effect. We’re aiming for stunned silence followed by tears of joy.”

I gave her a look. “I mean, maybe not tears. I don’t want to undo all your hard work.”

“Baby, this look will be going nowhere after I’m through with you.

” She grinned around the makeup brush she had between her teeth like a cigarette.

Glitter shimmered on her cheekbone, a little transferred from me, but more from her own canvas.

Blair was always a few degrees more than reality could handle.

It wasn’t just the highlighter or the statement lipstick she’d already picked out.

It was the way she moved—sharp and precise and proud.

Her femininity was a declaration, not a disguise.

And she’d earned every inch of it.

I didn’t say that. I just let her keep working, the brush sweeping soft against my skin, cool fingers shifting my jaw into the right angles.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said after a while, softer now.

I shrugged. “Just tired.”

She made a noncommittal sound. Not pushing, not pressing. But I could feel the question hanging there, anyway.

I didn’t have a good answer. I didn’t feel nervous, exactly. Not anymore. That emotion had long since calcified into something more complicated.

Because this wasn’t really about Jeff. It hadn’t been for days.

It was about the way everyone looked at me with pity or uncertainty, like I might break if they said the wrong thing.

As if getting dumped had turned me from competent to fragile overnight.

I hated it. Hated that walking into this party would feel like walking into a courtroom where everyone already thought they knew the story.

And yet… I still wanted to go.

Not to prove anything to anyone. Not even him. But because I’d wanted this night before it all fell apart. Because I’d paid for that dress with my own damn time and effort, and I’d earned the right to wear it. Because wanting something just for me didn’t make me selfish.

I was tired of folding in on myself.

And tonight, I didn’t have to.

My phone buzzed where it sat on the corner of the desk, half-buried under a tangle of bobby pins and a tube of something called “Radiance Primer.”

Blair didn’t notice. She was too busy muttering to herself about eyeshadow pigment and the cowardice of cheap brushes. I wiped my hand on my leg and reached for the phone.

Tess:

Hey! I just heard from Daniel and thought you should know—Jeff is planning to come tonight. Apparently, he’s bringing a date. Just wanted to give you a heads-up, in case that affects your plans

For a second, I just stared at the screen. The words didn’t land all at once. They slid in sideways, like cold water under a door. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until the room tilted.

And there it was. Not heartbreak. Not even anger. Just… dread.

Everyone would know. Everyone would be watching. Not because they cared about me, but because a story like this begged for an ending, and nothing said “drama” like your ex showing up with a replacement while you stood there alone in heels and pride.

I wasn’t stupid. I’d seen the glances all week at the sorority house. The conversations that stopped just a little too fast when I walked in. The sympathy in people’s eyes that felt like someone pressing on a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

And now? Now I was walking into a powder keg with a lit match and a purple dress.

The anxiety set in like static, low and crawling. A quiet simmer that made me want to pull into myself.

I didn’t care about Jeff. God, I really didn’t.

But I hated the idea of him becoming the lens everyone viewed me through.

I hated that the narrative would always circle back to that night.

To me watching him kiss someone else while I stood in a bar, trying not to cry in front of friends and strangers.

The worst part wasn’t what he’d done. It was what it echoed. The fear that maybe I wasn’t enough. That wanting something for myself had been foolish. That this whole thing—this night, this dress, this mask—wasn’t reclamation.

It was desperation.

And now everyone would see it.

I stared at the text until the screen dimmed, my reflection faint in the black glass. Mouth bare. Eyes shadowed. Half-finished.

“Hey.” Blair’s voice cut through the buzz in my head, sharper now. She must’ve seen my face. “What just happened?”

My fingers curled around the phone. I didn’t look at her. Not yet.

“He’s coming tonight.” My voice barely made it out of my throat. “With a date.”

The words hung there like smoke. I didn’t look at Blair. Couldn’t. I just stared at the middle distance like maybe the air could unravel the knot twisting in my gut.

“I don’t want to walk into that room and feel like a cautionary tale.”

Blair said nothing, but I felt her stillness behind me. All that glittering energy gone taut.

“I don’t want their pity.” The words tumbled out faster now.

“I can’t stand the way they look at me. Like I’m some wounded little duck who needs to be protected from big, bad heartbreak.

” I made a scoffing sound that didn’t quite qualify as a laugh.

“It’s not even about him anymore. Not really. It’s about what he took.”

My hands curled into frustrated fists. “This was supposed to be my night. And now it’s gonna be his. Again.”

For a heartbeat, Blair didn’t move. Then she straightened to her full height like a queen donning her crown, all softness replaced with fire. “First of all, he doesn’t get to hijack your night. Not unless you hand it to him.”

She stepped closer, eyeliner immaculate, energy coiled like a storm barely held in check.

“Second of all, you are not the girl who gets pitied. You are the girl who walks into a room and makes people regret underestimating her. And if they don’t see that the second you step through the door? Make. Them. Look.”

I blinked, but she wasn’t finished. Not even close.

“This isn’t about him. It never was. This is about you. Reclaiming your space. Daring them to look and not blink. And if they pity you?” She tilted her head, smile almost sharklike in its fierceness. “That’s because they don’t know what power looks like when it’s aimed straight at their throats.”

And then the final blow, spoken so softly it hit like a sledgehammer. “You said you didn’t want to feel invisible anymore. So don’t. Make them see you. Make him wish he’d never been so fucking stupid as to take you for granted.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of something sharp and electric. Like a fuse had been lit, and all I had to do was decide whether to let it burn.

I didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed. Let the silence wrap around me like gauze, thin and fragile, but holding everything in.

Then I nodded.

Blair didn’t cheer. Didn’t beam. She just exhaled like she’d known I’d get here all along. Then she moved with practiced grace. The dress came off its hanger, flowing like liquid midnight in her arms as she handed it to me. “Time to suit up, buttercup.”

She turned away, not because she was modest, but because she knew I needed the space.

I stepped into the dress slowly, reverently, like every inch of fabric meant something.

And it did. It was a promise I’d made to myself, long before Jeff ever touched my life.

Blaire was right: this was never about him.

Zipping the back, I felt the fabric hug my waist, settle against my ribs, cascade over my hips like it had been stitched to remind me that I had always, always been allowed to want something for myself.

I stepped into the heels—high, silver, and unapologetically bold.

Blair returned to my side like a general before battle. She reached into her makeup bag, pulled out the lipstick tube labeled “Hex,” and held it between two fingers like it was sacred.

She uncapped it with a click that sounded far louder than it should have. “I wore this the night I came out to my family. They didn’t all take it well. But I did it anyway. Because some truths don’t need permission.”

She turned to me. “Your turn.”

I tilted my chin.

She swiped the color onto my lips with a precision that felt ceremonial. The deep berry red gleamed like lacquered armor.

“Let him choke on it,” Blair murmured.

And then came the final piece. She opened the velvet box, pulled out the mask, and held it up like a coronation. “You ready?”

I took it from her hands. The feathers swept upward like wings, the metallic accents catching the bedroom light. When I settled it onto my face and tied the satin ribbons behind my head, something clicked into place. Not transformation, not pretend, but alignment.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The purple of the dress shimmered like the first light of dawn, catching lines I hadn’t admired before: the curve of my neck, the subtle strength in my shoulders, the way the fabric hugged my ribs without asking permission.

Each detail of the mask, the heels, the lipstick—they weren’t a costume.

They were declarations, pieces of armor forged from intention rather than guilt.

I traced the mask’s feathers with a gentle fingertip as if they carried their own breath.

The metallic edge of the mask caught the lamp’s glow and sharpened my cheekbones, gave me posture I didn’t know I’d lost. In that moment, I wasn’t someone trying to be seen—I was simply visible. Unburied. Entirely me.

There was a thrill in my chest when I realized this wasn't a transformation so much as a homecoming.

A quiet bloom of something powerful, claiming space I typically shrank from.

This was the mirror finally catching up with all the years I lived in preparation, waiting for the applause. Now, the mirror offered witness.

My breath settled slow. The night ahead wasn’t about revenge or proving people wrong. It was proof I'd already chosen myself. I inhaled deep, feeling the sturdy lift of the dress around my waist and the cool slide of satin ribbons at my neck. This was reclamation felt in skin and bone and stance.

I didn't need to become someone else. I just needed to step into who I’d always been beneath the surface. And damn it, I looked ready.

Blair stepped up behind me, catching my gaze in the mirror as she laid a hand on my shoulder.

I reached up to cover her hand with mine. “Thank you. For this. For everything.”

Her mouth curved—not into a smirk or a grin, but something gentler. Fiercer. “You didn’t need me, babe. You just needed reminding.”

I nodded, eyes stinging. “Still. Thank you.”

Blair squeezed my shoulder. “Go give ’em whiplash.”

I turned to the door, grabbed my small clutch, and let out one long breath. This wasn’t the safe choice. It wasn’t the quiet one. But for once, that wasn’t the point.

I didn’t have an entourage. I didn’t have a plan. But I had steel in my spine and war paint on my lips. I stepped out into the night—alone, but not lonely.

And this time, I didn’t shrink from the world. I walked straight into it.