Part 1 of 12

PART 2: The Smeared Face That Stunned The Whole Studio

Hhcms51 min read · August 29, 2026

Chapter 1

The jagged corner of the mahogany vanity caught me right below the ribs before my cheek slammed against the illuminated mirror.

A row of incandescent bulbs flickered violently, buzzing like angry hornets, and three heavy glass bottles of primer went crashing onto the floor.

Before I could draw breath to scream, Victoria’s manicured fingers gripped the back of my neck, shoving my face down into the open, overturned tray of thick liquid foundation.

"Now go show them how pretty you are," she hissed, her breath hot against my ear.

The cold, oily makeup coated my cheekbone, filled my left eyebrow, and dripped heavily toward my jawline.

She didn't just push me; she ground the palm of her hand against my temple, dragging the beige pigment across my skin until it felt like a burning mask.

The backstage dressing room of Studio 4 went completely silent.

Twenty people—wardrobe assistants holding steaming irons, hair stylists with shears frozen mid-air, and PR handlers clutching clipboards—instantly stopped talking.

No one moved an inch.

In this building, Victoria Drake was not just the lead model for the autumn campaign; she was the daughter of the agency’s primary financial backer.

I pushed my palms against the linoleum floor, feeling the sharp sting of broken glass biting into the fleshy part of my right thumb.

A drop of crimson mixed instantly into the beige puddle near my wrist.

"Get up, Clara," Victoria whispered, stepping back smoothly and wiping her hands on a pristine white microfiber towel. "You're getting grease on the floorboards."

My chest heaved as I pulled myself onto my knees, my vision blurred on the left side by the heavy coating of foundation.

I had spent four hours in the styling chair this morning, carefully layering waterproof concealers to hide the faded, jagged scar running from the edge of my jaw to the base of my neck.

That scar was a secret I had protected for seven years, ever since the fire at the old warehouse district.

Now, under the heat of Victoria’s hands and the abrasive drag of the liquid pigments, the thick concealer had melted and smeared away.

The pale, raised ridge of my old skin was glaringly exposed beneath the uneven streaks of bronze and ivory paint.

Victoria looked down at it, her lips curving into a thin, triumphant smile that didn't reach her cold grey eyes.

"You really thought Marcus was going to let an orphan from South Boston represent the luxury line?" she murmured, leaning down just enough so only I could hear. "Look at you. You look like a broken porcelain doll someone pulled out of the trash."

I clenched my fists, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ribs where the desk corner had bruised me.

"I earned this booking," I said, my voice shaking despite every ounce of willpower I possessed. "Marcus didn't give me anything. The client selected my test shots."

Victoria let out a short, mocking laugh that cut through the silence of the room.

"The client picks who we tell them to pick," she said coldly. "And right now, you're a walking health and safety hazard."

A young makeup assistant named Nora stepped forward tentatively, clutching a warm, damp towel in trembling hands.

"Miss Clara, let me—let me help you wash that off before Mr. Cross comes in," Nora stammered, her eyes darting nervously toward Victoria. "If it dries, it's going to ruin your skin barrier..."

Nora took one step toward me, reaching out with the towel.

"If you touch her, Nora, you're packing your kit before noon," Victoria said without even turning her head.

Nora froze, the damp towel trembling in her grip, her face draining of color.

I reached up with the back of my hand to wipe the stinging foundation away from my eye, but the heavy curtain separating the dressing room from the main photography bay was suddenly pulled back.

The brass rings on the curtain rod shrieked across the metal pipe.

Julian Cross stepped into the room.

Julian was legendary in the American fashion industry for two reasons: his photographs ended up in permanent museum collections, and he never spoke more than three sentences to anyone who wasn't paying him seven figures.

He wore a faded black crewneck with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a vintage medium-format camera hanging from a leather strap around his shoulder, and a half-burnt unlit match tucked behind his ear.

His sharp, dark eyes scanned the dressing room, taking in the shattered bottles on the floor, Nora standing petrified with the towel, and Victoria standing rigidly in her emerald silk dressing gown.

Finally, his gaze dropped to me.

I was sitting on my knees on the floor, my hair half-tangled around my shoulders, my right hand bleeding faintly, and my face covered in wild, uneven streaks of heavy foundation that revealed the pale, jagged scar underneath.

The room held its breath.

Victoria immediately shifted her posture, softening her features into a look of sorrowful concern.

"Julian, thank goodness you're here," Victoria began smoothly, taking a graceful step toward him. "Clara had an unfortunate dizzy spell and knocked over the styling table. I tried to catch her, but she made an absolute mess of the prep work. We’ll need another hour to fix her face, or we can just start my solo cover spreads right now."

Julian didn't look at Victoria.

He didn't even acknowledge that she had spoken.

He took slow, measured steps across the linoleum, his worn boots crunching faintly against the micro-shards of cosmetic glass.

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