Public Proof

The stylist’s hands were cold, but the corset she cinched around Elena’s ribs felt like a cage. Elena gripped the velvet edge of the vanity, her knuckles turning bone-white. She wasn't a woman being prepared for an evening; she was an asset being curated for a corporate assassination. The midnight-blue silk of her gown clung to her like liquid ice, and the diamond choker—a piece that cost more than the apartment she had vacated three days ago—pressed against her throat with the weight of a gilded shackle.

"The shoulders," the makeup artist muttered, dabbing matte powder onto Elena’s collarbone. "She needs to look unreachable, not vulnerable."

Elena stared at her

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