Chapter 5 The Mirror Hour
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The day of the long-awaited gala arrived with an unease so quiet it nearly passed as calm. But the estate buzzed beneath the surface, tension braided into every movement. Maids swept past each other in near collisions, the air thick with hairspray, floor polish, and anxiety. Orders were barked, glass clinked, heels clicked, and everything seemed to be pulled taut, like the air itself was holding its breath.
There wasn't time to linger. Heira had known that from the moment she woke.
By morning, she was back on her hands and knees, scrubbing the marble floor of the grand ballroom, the one that had been cleared and polished for tonight's event. As her cloth dragged across the tiles, a murmur rose behind the heavy curtains two voices, low and clipped. She froze.
"She can't be here during the gala."
"It's already arranged. She'll be gone by then."
"Good. We can't afford any… incidents."
Heira didn't move. Her hand stilled mid-swipe. A drop of water from her rag slid down the curve of the tile, tracing a thin, winding line. They were speaking of her. Arranged. Gone.
She let the words settle into her bones. It wasn't the first time people planned around her like she was furniture, or a threat. And it never changed the outcome she survived them all. Still, she made no reaction. She finished her work, careful and deliberate, her body a whisper as she packed away the rag and straightened the cleaning cart.
If they didn't want her at the gala, then it only confirmed she needed to be there.
She turned to leave and found herself face-to-face with Calliope.
The newest ornament of the family stood in the hallway in a silk robe, her hair twisted in foam curlers, her lips freshly glossed. Heira dipped her eyes and walked past.
But Calliope grabbed a fistful of Heira's hair, pulling her just close enough to hiss.
"Don't come near the gala."
Heira didn't flinch. Prison had taught her to keep her breath, not waste it on those who fed off fear. Calliope was no more than a performative threat, all posture and desperation, needing to be seen to believe she belonged.
Heira slowly untangled her hair from Calliope's grip and turned away without a word.
A few days ago, while organizing linens in the attic, she had found a note folded beneath the sheets. The paper was old, the handwriting unfamiliar.
Stay silent. Stay safe.
At the time, she'd tucked it away without thinking. Now it echoed in her mind as she made her way through the house, silent but not safe.
She waited until the shift was done before sneaking back to the attic. The cameras she hadn't forgotten about them. From her pocket, she drew a small blade and flung it upward. The lens shattered with a single strike.
Dust stirred as she searched. Old boxes, trunks, forgotten corners. Her fingers moved with intent. She finally found them —her belongings. Her clothes, packed years ago. Her makeup. Her old toiletries. Her perfume bottles. Hairbrush. Flat iron. Mirror. They were still there, untouched but waiting.
She clutched them to her chest and retraced her steps, but when she reached the attic door and turned the handle, it didn't budge. She tried again, harder. Locked.
Deliberately.
She looked back into the shadows. Whoever locked her in had forgotten one thing—this place used to be her haven. She knew every exit.
She turned and took a sharp left, down a narrow passage, then a small wooden ladder tucked into the wall. Through a crawlspace, past insulation and beams, then down through a service panel that led, without fail, into the guest wing—specifically, into Calliope's private closet.
Empty.
Heira moved quickly. She placed her things on the vanity and scanned the room. In the far right of the closet hung a crimson gown. It was shaped like poured lacquer, all curves and daring angles. She'd never worn anything like it. Her eyes narrowed, then she nodded once and made a mental note of it before gathering her things and hiding them in the room then slipping back toward the servants' quarters.
But she wasn't fast enough.
The head maid spotted her the moment she re-entered.
"You think you can disappear whenever you like?"
Before Heira could answer, a hard slap cracked across her cheek. Her face whipped to the side, but she didn't make a sound.
"This will teach you," the woman hissed. "You're nothing here. A maid. That's it. Learn your place."
Heira didn't respond. She bowed her head and followed the woman back to the service area, where a heap of chores awaited. She completed every one, neither rushing nor dragging her feet. Efficient, invisible.
As dusk fell, the gala began. Cars arrived in a steady stream, black and polished, purring through the gates like sleek beasts. The ballroom lights glittered. Laughter and music bled into the hallway air.
Inside the mansion, only a handful of servants remained. The others had been sent to serve drinks and carry trays. The house was nearly silent.
Perfect.
Heira slipped into her room, locking the door behind her. Her backpack—small, the same one she carried from prison—was waiting. She packed it carefully. Essentials only. Then she waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Listening. No footsteps. No voices.
She crept out.
Through the passage.
Back into Calliope's room.
And locked the door.
She exhaled. The stillness inside was heavy with perfume and privilege. She didn't waste time. She stripped from her uniform and stepped into the adjoining bathroom, turned on the shower, and waited until the steam coated the mirror. She scrubbed herself clean with a fresh sponge she brought, watching dirt swirl down the drain. She washed her hair—twice—then shaved her legs until her skin gleamed. She trimmed her brows with careful precision, then tweezed the arch to its original shape.
After drying off, she sat on the padded stool in front of the vanity and got to work with the skincare on the available, her old skincare was already expired so she couldn't make use of them. Her hands moved automatically. Cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer even though the night would be long.
Next came her nails. She clipped each fingernail carefully, filing them into smooth ovals. Her toenails, too. She selected a deep oxblood polish and a silver polish to line the tips with, the same shade she'd once worn the night she first learned how easily beauty could be used as armor. She painted her fingers and toes with steady precision, waiting between coats, watching the glossy wetness harden to shine.
Her hair she left damp, letting it air dry in waves while she worked on her makeup.
Primer. Concealer. Foundation. Powder. She shaped her face in shadows and light, subtly altering the features they had tried so hard to erase. A dark plum on her lips, almost black in the right lighting. Her eyes she left sharp, outlined in a wing so precise it could cut.
She misted herself in perfume—first at the neck, then the wrists, then behind her knees. The scent was warm and heady, unfamiliar to anyone in this house. A memory of freedom.
Only then did she rise and move to the closet.
She pulled the red gown from the hanger and held it up. It looked almost alive. She stepped into it, slowly, adjusting the fabric over her hips and shoulders, fastening the concealed zipper at the side. It fit. Of course it fit.
Last came the shoes. She opened drawer after drawer, seeking something that matched. Gold? No. Silver? No. Then—at the back of the lowest shelf—heels the exact color of blood.
She slipped them on and stood. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror spraying her hair and really taking her time to look at herself.
A ghost, returned.
The sounds from the gala echoed in the far distance. Laughter rising, music swelling, glasses clinking. She stood in the eye of the storm, perfectly still.
They thought they had silenced her. Forgotten her.
But they would see her tonight.
And they would remember.