The mirror does not lie.

I run the fine edge of my nail along my jawline, tilting my head ever so slightly. Not a flaw in sight. As expected. My reflection gazes back, the glow of the vanity lights casting a soft radiance over porcelain skin, the delicate curve of my lips, the sharp cut of my cheekbones. A masterpiece sculpted through years of unrelenting effort. I allow myself a small smile—controlled, poised, the kind that lingers just enough to be alluring without seeming contrived.

Perfection is not a gift; it is an achievement. One I have bled for, sweated for, willed into existence.

With practiced ease, I reach for a golden compact and flick it open, inspecting the faint shimmer of my setting powder. Impeccable. I exhale, adjusting the drape of my robe, ensuring that the fabric pools just right around my frame. Every fold, every intricate thread, whispers of refinement. The weight of my sash sits firm around my waist, the red rope a striking contrast against black and gold. It is a statement. A warning. Beauty is not kind to the lazy.

The air holds the scent of crushed violets and a whisper of something sharper—poisoned apple, subtle yet undeniable. Fitting.

I straighten, fingers gliding through the long waves of my hair, the ends brushing lightly against my shoulders. The braids are secure, the gold barrette catching the light as I turn. A final glance in the mirror. Not a single strand out of place. Good.

Excellence is expected. And I do not disappoint.