Page 124 of Scarred in Silence

“Can I get my hair changed?” I ask quietly. I never asked him how he felt about it, but I don’t care. I hate it.

“Of course, baby. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

He places a gentle kiss on my forehead and leaves the room.

I really did get lucky, didn’t I?

* * *

The scent of bleach hits before the door even closes behind us.

It’s sharp and familiar like a warning, or a memory with teeth.

The salon is minimalist, featuring white tile, black chairs, and clean lines. No soft pastels or Instagram walls. Just mirrors that force you to look at yourself, whether you want to or not.

I stare at mine now, unsure who the fuck is staring back.

The girl in the reflection has brown, muted hair, flipped up at the ends, tangled from sleep and sex and everything in between. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles. Her mouth is a silent dare. She doesn’t look like someone who was meant to survive.

But I did. Somehow.

Lucien brushes a hand down my spine. “You sure?”

I nod, even though I’m not. “I want to be blonde again.”

I need to feel like I’ve made a choice. Like this, this body is still mine.

The stylist—a man with silver rings and a practiced indifference—greets us and gestures to the chair.

Lucien doesn’t sit. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I’m something fragile that learned how to bite.

“I’ll leave it a little rooted,” the stylist says, running his hands through my hair. “Keep the edge?”

I nod. “Make it cold. Platinum. No warmth.”

He lifts a brow but doesn’t argue. Just gets to work, parting and painting, tucking foil after foil like secrets under metal.

Lucien’s eyes never leave me.

“You’re quiet,” I say to him between sections.

He shrugs. “Watching.”

“You always are.”

“Better me than someone else.”

That used to piss me off. Now, I’m not sure. Maybe I like being watched if it means someone notices when I start to sink.

The stylist hums softly under his breath as he works. I think it’s “Material Girl” by Madonna. I laugh internally. The foils crinkle. Time stretches.

It’s strange—how something as mundane as a salon chair can feel like a battlefield. This place is sterile, but I feel everything. Every choice. Every time I dyed my hair to be someone else. To disappear. To provoke. To forget.

And now?

Now I just want to feel likeme.Even if I’m still not sure who that is.

“I used to do this alone,” I murmur.