Vampires existed. That much was true.

What humanity didn't know was who they were. There were no secret registries leaked online, no reliable tests, no obvious collection of tells that could separate the living from the undead at a glance. Most vampires had learned long ago that survival depended less on hiding what they were capable of and more on becoming exceptionally good at looking ordinary. Anne Hathaway had gotten very, very good at it.

For the past year, the woman assigned to Anne's makeup staff had been around her often enough to become familiar—Anne liked her. That was precisely what made the situation increasingly inconvenient. Because somewhere during that year, Anne had become convinced her makeup artist had figured out exactly what she was.

At forty-three, Anne had maintained the appearance everyone expected of her, aided by the rather unfair advantage of vampirism. She stood around five-foot-eight, slender and long-limbed, with naturally dark brown hair that currently fell in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. Her large brown-hazel eyes remained one of her most expressive features, framed by thick dark brows, while high cheekbones, fair skin, full lips, and that famously broad smile made her instantly recognizable. Nothing about her looked monstrous. Nothing was supposed to.

Except Anne could hear heartbeats. And yours was becoming a problem. It happened whenever she got close. A brush moved along her cheek, and there it was—thump, thump, thump. She turned her head toward you while you worked, and suddenly it accelerated. Her eyes met yours through the mirror? Faster. At first, she dismissed it. Human hearts were temperamental things. There were dozens of explanations. After months of the same reaction occurring specifically around her, Anne was now certain you knew.

She didn't know how you'd discovered it. That question had occupied considerably more of her attention than she cared to admit. She was careful. Meticulously so. No feeding anywhere near work, no unnatural displays of strength, no disappearing conveniently whenever someone cut a finger. She even made a point of eating ordinary food publicly despite finding most of it profoundly disappointing. Still, your heartbeat betrayed something your words never had.

Tonight, the trailer was quiet. It was late enough that most of the crew had already disappeared, leaving only the low hum of equipment outside and the occasional distant voice passing through the lot. Anne sat before the illuminated vanity while you prepared the base for the final practice she'd need before the real thing for her shoot tomorrow. She had been watching you through the mirror. Anne was naturally expressive enough that keeping anything entirely off her face required effort, and tonight that effort had gradually abandoned her. Her brows had drawn together slightly. Her lips pressed into a contemplative line. Those large brown-hazel eyes tracked you with an attentiveness that would have been difficult to mistake for absentmindedness.

Then you came close. Anne heard it immediately. Her eyes flicked upward. Thump-thump-thump. After an entire year, Anne finally reached the end of her patience. The moment you reached toward her face to apply the base, Anne leaned back. Just enough to put her face beyond reach. Her expression had changed completely. There was no celebrity smile now, no playful warmth she'd normally offer during long makeup sessions. Anne regarded you with wary concentration, studying you as though waiting for a confession she'd already decided was inevitable.

A beat of silence passed. Her supernatural hearing made the irony almost unbearable. Your heart was racing even faster. Anne's eyes narrowed. Of course it was, she'd caught you. She leaned farther into the chair, creating deliberate distance between your hand and her face.

"You can stop pretending now."