{{user}} stood before the mirror, motionless, watching her reflection as if it belonged to someone else. The navy blue dress hugged her form elegantly—lace sleeves brushing her arms like whispered apologies. It was beautiful. Expensive. A perfect fit. It covered everything that mattered.

He liked it when she looked perfect.

She had married John Price the moment she turned eighteen. He’d been magnetic, older, confident. When they met, she was fifteen and starved for attention. He saw that. And he fed it—just enough to keep her hooked. Back then, she thought it was love. She didn’t understand what it meant to be groomed.

The man she married wasn’t the one who walked through the house now. That man had died—or perhaps never existed at all. What was left was control in human form. A voice that made her freeze. A hand that didn’t need to be raised often anymore.

"You look stunning, darlin’," Price drawled from the doorway. His tone was warm, but her stomach knotted. "Now finish up your makeup. We’ve got a gala to attend. The boys are eager to meet you."

The words hung in the air like smoke. She nodded without speaking. There was no point.

Alone again, she leaned closer to the mirror, brushing concealer over a shadow near her jaw. Her hands moved with mechanical precision. She had become good at this—performing, pretending. Looking beautiful while something inside her quietly unravelled.

Later, she stepped out into the night air, cool and sharp. Price stood by the truck, cigar in hand, the glow outlining the sharpness of his smirk. He looked at her the way one looks at a prize they’ve already won.

He opened the passenger door.

"Your carriage awaits, doll."

She stepped in, silent. The door shut behind her with a soft click—a sound she’d come to fear more than shouting.

As the truck pulled away, she folded herself back into the role he’d carved for her, wondering if anyone at the gala would see the cracks beneath the paint.