Chapter 6: Getting Ready

The party was about to start. Having spent all afternoon helping Mommy supervise setting up downstairs, it was time to get myself ready.

I lingered in the bathroom doorway, catching the faint pulse of music and voices drifting up from downstairs. My eighteenth birthday had come and gone last week, but the word “adult” still felt like a coat that didn’t quite fit. Seven days in and I still caught myself hesitating at the threshold, half expecting someone to tell me I wasn’t old enough for what came next.

Tonight wasn’t about birthdays anyway. It was Halloween, and somehow that made the air feel charged, like anything could happen if I just stepped into it.

I turned the shower on full blast and waited until steam rolled across the tiles. The first touch of hot water made me gasp, then sigh as it soaked through my hair and ran down my back. For half an hour I let everything else slip away—the grimoire, the party, the nervous twist in my stomach—and focused on the simple rhythm of washing, rinsing, shaving.

I worked the razor slowly over my armpits, then my legs, then lower, taking my time around the soft folds of my pussy and the tight ring of my asshole until every inch felt smooth beneath my fingertips. The expensive conditioner Mommy kept buying even though I told her it was unnecessary left my hair silky. When I finally stepped out, I wrapped myself in a thick white towel and wiped a clear circle into the fogged mirror.

My reflection stared back, pale and wide-eyed, looking younger than the number on my license. I brushed my teeth, smoothed moisturizer over my skin, then spent the next stretch of time coaxing my fine, straight, almost-white hair into something that would fall just right. I dried it until it reached almost to my waist, ran a little product through the ends, and studied the result from every angle. Ten extra minutes of fussing later, I decided it was as good as it was going to get.

Makeup came next—light foundation, a dusting of powder, the faintest blush, a sweep of highlighter along my cheekbones. I lined my eyes, added mascara until my lashes looked thicker, and finished with a soft pink gloss that made my mouth look fuller. When I leaned in to check the final effect, I caught myself smiling without meaning to.

Because I was thinking about Lucas Harlan again.

He had no idea what he did to people. Tall, dark-haired, always a little rumpled in that effortless way, he listened like every word mattered. I’d known him for years and wanted him for almost as long. The crush had become a quiet, constant hum beneath everything else.

Tonight I wondered what he would see when he looked at me. The thought sent a warm flutter through my stomach. I pictured him spotting me across the room, his expression shifting, his long legs carrying him straight to where I stood. I caught myself grinning at my own reflection and had to look away.

“Stop it,” I muttered, reaching for the perfume. One spritz on each wrist, one at the base of my throat. Vanilla and cream—sweet, familiar, safe. The scent settled over my skin like a second skin, and for a moment I let myself breathe it in, grounding myself before the night ahead.