The sun hadn't even cleared the skyline when the locks on my door clicked.
Four women marched in...They wore sharp, black blazers and carried silver cases that looked like surgical kits.
In the center of them stood a woman in a red silk wrap dress. She didn't look at me....She looked at the room, her nose wrinkled as if she could smell the public ward I'd just come from.
"Is this it?" she asked. Her voice was like a thin blade.
"This is Miss Hayes, Tira," one of the stylists said.
Tira finally turned her gaze to me. Her eyes were dark, polished, and entirely vacant of heat. She was the woman from the photographs in the library...the one Sergei Volkov called the daughter he never had.
"Darian has such strange tastes lately," Tira said. She stepped closer, circling me.
Who is she?
"Stand up, Liora. Let's see what five hundred thousand dollars actually buys these days."
I stood. My legs were heavy, but I kept my chin level.
"Arms out," the lead stylist ordered.
I didn't move.
"Do what she says," Tira whispered, leaning in. "The Circle doesn't tolerate disobedience. Especially not from the daughter of a thief."
And who the fuck is this circle everyone keeps talking about!
I felt a sharp prick in my chest. I slowly raised my arms.
The tape measure snapped around my waist. The stylists moved with robotic efficiency, their fingers digging into my skin...
"Small," the lead one muttered, scribbling on a tablet. "Malnourished. The skin is dull. We'll need the chemical peels."
"And the scent," Tira added, waving a hand in front of her face. "It's very... diner. Greasy. Cheap."
"I've had a shower," I said.
"It's in your pores, dear," Tira said. She picked up a lock of my hair and dropped it as if it were soiled. "It's the smell of failure. Your father had it, too.
The room went silent. I felt my heart hammer against my ribs....a frantic, rhythmic thud. I stared at the wall....I didn't blink. I would not let the tear fall.
"Daniel Hayes was a genius," I said. My voice was flat.
Tira laughed. It was a soft, melodic sound that didn't reach her eyes. "A genius who died in debt. Just like you're doing now. You're just a vessel, Liora. A high-priced incubator. Don't forget that."
"The waist is twenty-four inches," the stylist announced. "She'll fit the archive pieces."
"Good," Tira said. "Make her look like a Volkov. Even if she's just a Hayes underneath."
I turned my head slightly.
Darian was standing in the doorway.
He was wearing a dark suit, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't say a word...He didn't tell them to stop.
But I saw his knuckles,they were white and the skin stretched tight over the bone. His gaze was locked on mine.
"Are we done?" I asked, looking directly at him.
Darian didn't move. His jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek.
"Not even close," Tira said.
