Beatrice hummed softly as she sat before the vanity mirror, the melody light and almost girlish—completely unlike the woman she usually was.
Warm golden lights framed the mirror, casting a flattering glow across her carefully made-up face. Powders, brushes, lipsticks, and expensive skincare products littered the marble vanity table like treasures from a luxury boutique. The scent of perfume and setting spray lingered heavily in the air.
For nearly two hours, she had been perfecting every detail.
Every lash. Every strand of hair. Every stroke of lipstick.
"Mom," Moira said from the doorway, amusement slipping into her voice. "Why are you so happy tonight? You've been in front of that mirror forever."
She walked closer until their reflections nearly overlapped in the mirror.
Moira blinked in surprise.
"Wow…" she murmured honestly. "Your makeup is incredible. You don't even look like my mother." She grinned teasingly. "You look young enough to be my older sister."
