It would touch the yellow canvas makeup bag.
The mirror.
My bare face.
And every once in a while, I would think about the woman I had been that morning in Connecticut—the woman standing bruised in a beautiful kitchen, holding a luxury bag designed to erase evidence.
I wished I could reach backward through time and tell her one thing.
Not that she would win.
Not that Adrian would lose.
Not that Victoria’s plans would collapse.
Something simpler.
Something she needed more.
One morning, she would look into a mirror with nothing to cover—and realize the face staring back at her finally belonged only to herself.
