The private VIP dressing room carried a heady mixture of premium aerosol hairspray, expensive French perfume, and the faint chemical heat of curling irons, a scent that had become synonymous with power and privilege.
Lydia Hale sat perfectly centered before a massive three-panel vanity mirror bordered by dozens of blinding high-wattage bulbs. She held her chin high, lips parted in a slight, practiced pout as three styling assistants moved around her like silent satellites.
One carefully pinned back a stray lock of her intricately curled blonde hair, another applied a final layer of shimmering gloss to her lips, and the third smoothed down the heavy silk satin pleats of her emerald designer gown. Each movement was choreographed, rehearsed through years of similar mornings. Lydia had learned long ago that beauty required an army.
