Page 35 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

She smiles, clearly not hearing the bitterness in my voice. “It’s exactly what Mr. Sharov requested.”

My stomach churns. “He requested it?”

She nods, dabbing concealer beneath my eyes. “Oh yes. He wanted something dramatic, elegant. Smoky eyes, a neutral lip—nothing too bright.”

I press my lips together, swallowing down the sharp retort rising in my throat. Of course, he made the decision for me. He’s made all the decisions since this nightmare began.

The brush strokes against my skin feel heavier now, each movement a reminder of how little control I have. When the artist reaches for a pale nude lipstick, I can’t help but speak up.

“Do you have anything brighter? Maybe a red or a pink?”

She hesitates, glancing at me in the mirror. “This is what Mr. Sharov specified,” she says carefully, her hands resuming their work.

I sigh, sinking further into the chair as she finishes. When she steps back, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

The smoky eyeshadow is dark and intense, giving my face a cold, almost harsh look. The neutral lipstick washes me out, stripping away any warmth or personality. It’s striking, sure, but it doesn’t feel like me.

“What do you think?” the artist asks, tilting her head as she studies me.

I hesitate, the words tangling in my throat. What do I think? That I look like someone else entirely? That this image feels more like a mask than a reflection?

“It’s fine,” I say finally, my voice flat.

The artist doesn’t press further. She offers a polite smile, packing up her tools with practiced efficiency.

Vera steps into the room as the artist leaves, her gaze sweeping over me. For a moment, she says nothing, her expression unreadable.

“You look lovely,” she says eventually, though her tone lacks the usual enthusiasm of a genuine compliment.

“Do I?” I ask, my voice tinged with sarcasm. “I look like someone else.”

Vera hesitates, moving to stand beside me. “I know this isn’t easy,” she says gently. “But sometimes, doing what’s expected makes things… simpler.”

I turn to face her, my jaw tightening. “Simpler for him, maybe. Not for me.”

Her face softens, and she places a hand on my shoulder, her touch light but steady. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling,” she says. “But I can tell you this—strength comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s in standing your ground. Other times, it’s in choosing when to bend.”

Her words settle into my thoughts, and I glance back at my reflection. The woman staring back at me is polished and flawless, but she feels like a stranger.

“Do you really think this will get easier?” I ask quietly.

Vera’s hand drops to her side, and she takes a step back. “That depends on you,” she says softly. “And on him.”

The answer isn’t comforting, but it’s honest. I nod, rising slowly from the chair. The dress swishes around me as I move, its weight grounding me in this surreal reality.

“Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for.

Vera offers a faint smile, her gaze kind. “You’re welcome, dear.”

Vera lingers by the door, her hand resting lightly on the frame. She doesn’t leave, her sharp gaze flicking back to me with an almost maternal concern.

“You’re angry,” she says quietly.

I scoff, shaking my head as I turn back to the mirror. “Of course I’m angry. Wouldn’t you be?”

Vera steps closer again, her soft-soled shoes barely making a sound against the carpet. “I would,” she admits. “Anger, if left alone, tends to burn out the wrong things.”

I narrow my eyes at her reflection. “What am I supposed to do with it, then? Swallow it down? Smile and nod and let him pull all the strings?”

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