The makeup brush moved in smooth, practiced strokes across Heather's cheek.
"I swear to God," Penny muttered, her voice riding the edge between exhaustion and homicide, "if you ever pull something like this again, I'm charging double."
She tapped the brush against the palette and reached for Heather's face again, her expression tight with mock frustration.
"Who the hell calls someone at five in the evening to say, 'Hey, I need a full face... in a limo'? You're lucky I still like you."
Heather tried to smile. Penny was all bark and no bite, the kind of friend who would huff and grumble while rearranging her entire life for you. She led with tough love, but Heather had never mistaken it for anything less than loyalty.
The limo rocked gently as it turned a corner.
"You do more than like me," Heather murmured.
"I did," Penny replied sharply, though her tone was laced with something softer. "Until you ghosted me for seven months."
Heather's smile faltered. Her gaze drifted to the tinted window, the outside lights painted streaks across her reflection.
"I didn't even know you were back in the city," Penny continued, pausing to wipe a brush. "I had to hear it from your manager. Sheng, of all people. Sheng."
"I only got in last week," Heather said quietly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't think I'd still be here. I thought it would just be a few days."
Penny stared at her for a beat too long, the brush hovering just inches from Heather's face. She had known her for years—long enough to recognize the signs. Heather only ever tucked her hair behind her ear like that when she was nervous. It had become a habit; a replacement for nail-biting.
"You've got that look," Penny said. "That 'I want to tell you something but I can't' look."
Heather lowered her eyes. Her fingers twisted in her lap.
"What is it?" Penny asked, her tone softening. "Did something happen?"
Heather glanced up at the driver, then at the tinted divider separating them from the front of the vehicle. She leaned in slightly, her voice barely a whisper.
"I can't say."
Penny sighed and set down the brush. "Is it... bad?"
Heather bit the inside of her cheek, her thoughts racing. Her hands were still clenched together tightly.
"I don't know yet," she admitted.
Before Penny could ask anything else, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and then raised her eyebrows.
"Oh—wait, it's starting. They want you ready in thirty."
As if on cue, Sheng yelled from just outside the car.
"Miss H, we're pulling in! Thirty seconds—where the hell is her mask?!"
Penny tossed the last compact into her kit and handed Heather the black silk mask and oversized sunglasses.
"You're up, superstar," she said, her voice a mix of pride and protectiveness.
Heather took a deep breath. She rubbed her palms together, centering herself.
This was it; time for the shift.
From Heather to Miss H.
She slid the mask over her face, the soft fabric molding itself to her cheekbones. The sunglasses followed, dark lenses hiding everything except the faintest shadow of her eyes. It was a ritual now. A cold, familiar, and safe shield.
The limo slowed to a stop.
"Miss H, time!" Sheng barked from outside.
A sea of paparazzi came closer with their blinding flashes. Even with sunglasses which was supposed to protect her eyes from them, the flashes still made her feel uncomfortable. She bent her head.
Heather stepped out slowly. The camera shutting was almost an overwhelming sound, coupled with the deafening screams from crazy fans.
Heather hadn't even stepped down from the limo and she was already welcomed with flashing light. People screaming on top of their voices while clicking their phones.
Five years ago, when she was still married, she'd walked red carpets unnoticed. Now she couldn't step outside as Miss H without starting a frenzy.
The limo door swung open.
"Miss H!"
"Look this way!"
"Just one shot—please!"
"Is that a ring?! Zoom in!"
"Oh my God, that dress is insane!"
Hands stretched past the velvet ropes to her she felt they were like a thousand, their phones tilted and pointed towards her. The roar of their voices turned into noise.
The fans screamed so loudly it made the back of her neck prickle.
She adjusted her posture, smoothing the fabric of her dress with a quick gesture. Her right hand lifted waving.
Every step she took made the crowd press closer, as though they wanted to absorb her into themselves.
Sheng doubled the number of guards, and they surrounded her like a perimeter of moving walls, guiding her forward through the chaos.
"Keep moving," one of them whispered.
When she actually went inside, the chao lessoned, but attention was still stolen.
The actual star of the event, some chart-topping celebrity with a Netflix contract and ten million followers, faltered mid-sentence when she saw Miss H enter.
"Is that…?"
"Is that really Miss H?"
Even among stars, Miss H's entrance stole the air from the room. She was the phantom they all whispered about, the icon who never showed her face. Mysterious. Impeccable. Untouchable.
And none of them—not a single soul—knew that the woman commanding their worship had woken up in a stranger's mansion just yesterday, still cuffed to a bed.