Chapter 1

I'm an A-list actress. But I have the worst makeup artists in the business, my boyfriend, Dorian Cross.

Every time he touches my face, he turns me into a failed Picasso painting.

And the night before the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, the biggest night of my career.

He pressed a serum mask loaded with chemical irritants against my skin. Until my face was so badly burned I couldn't even get foundation on.

He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around my waist:

"Baby, I can't figure it out. I really can't figure it out."

I just sighed.

Later I snapped a photo of his profile when he was working and posted it.

[HELP. This man destroys my face every time.]

[Ma'am you're kind of asking the impossible here]

[Hold on! Do you guys not know who he is? He used to be the super model Odette Laurent's personal makeup artist. He designed the look behind her most iconic shoot.]

[Girl, are you sure he's not doing it on purpose? Did you piss him off?]

He literally formulated the serum the British royals use. There's no way he's accidentally burning your skin.

I touched my still-raw cheek.

A push notification hit my screen:

[Odette Laurent makes her comeback and stuns at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party.]

The party I'd just missed. Because of my face.

"Dorian, have you seen Vesper's face?"

Dorian's brother's voice carried through the phone as I stopped outside the door.

"Honestly looks terrifying. She used to be so pretty. Now I'm having nightmares."

My chest went tight.

Dorian's voice cooled: "I don‘t care. She's not my girlfriend."

"Oh, my bad — Odette's the real one. And honestly? If Dorian hadn't given Vesper the wrong face mask, her comeback wouldn't have hit half as hard.

This whole thing was genius."

I covered my mouth.

His sister's voice chimed in:

"He knew Vesper would steal Odette's thunder, so he made sure she couldn't show up.

I'd love to see her try to walk a red carpet looking like that.

Watching her suffer? Honestly, I'm living."

Dorian, flat and unbothered: "It was Odette's comeback. It mattered to her."

"Please — when has Odette's anything not mattered to you? Remember that tiny cable interview three years ago? You pulled three all-nighters designing her look. We genuinely thought you were going to drop dead."

Tears slid down my face without a sound.

Dorian let out a quiet laugh.

The call ended. Through the gap in the door, I watched him scroll his phone.

The internet was losing its mind over Odette's look from last night.

Every beauty account was breaking it down, replicating it — posts racking up twenty thousand likes minimum.

He scrolled through the #QueenIsBack tag, pausing on photo after photo of Odette.

A smile crept onto his face.

And in the second I saw it, I finally understood what his real smile looked like.

So the one he'd been giving me all this time — that was fake.

He kept scrolling. Hit pieces about me.

[Vesper Sinclair skips Oscar Party — too scared to face Odette Laurent?]

The top comment was a photo of Odette from last night:

Honey, Vesper could never. Odette isn't just back — she's untouchable.

Dorian let out a short laugh.

My legs went weak.

I made it back to my dressing room. Looked at myself in the mirror.

Red, raw, broken skin in patches — one spot near my cheekbone had started to weep.

I touched it. Like pressing a bruise, but with needles.

My phone buzzed. A message from him:

[How's your skin today? Any better?]