When in Rome Pt. 2

The room was warm with gold light, every polished surface of the Roman hotel suite catching the late evening sun that spilled in through tall glass doors leading to a narrow balcony. The city outside murmured beneath them—motorbikes humming over cobblestones, distant laughter, the soft clatter of dishes in open-air cafés. Rome breathed beneath them like something ancient and alive, but inside, there was only soft music from Seraphina’s phone and the sound of zippers and hangers.

Seraphina was cross-legged on the bed, her suitcase half-unpacked, a mess of silk and neutrals and bold color draped across the coverlet like a showroom exploded. She was folding a blouse with the kind of lazy care only a well-trained assistant could afford in the rare lull between obligations.

“Okay but this is a slay already,” she said aloud, holding up one of Kiara’s skirts like she was presenting an offering to the gods. “This with heels? In Italy? You’re going to have men dropping gelato just trying to look at you.”

Kiara’s laugh echoed from the bathroom, musical, light—the kind of giggle that had long ago stopped feeling like a performance and simply became habit. The kind that was so natural now it slipped out whether she meant to or not. It was just how she laughed. Just _how _she sounded. She was still drying her hands as she stepped out of the steam-warmed marble-tiled room, her dress already on, hair brushed back and slightly damp around her temples.

The dress was simple but stunning—an cute number in a dusty rose, soft matte silk that clung in all the right places. It cinched tight just under her bust, contouring her waist in a way that exaggerated the soft curve of her hips. The hem skimmed her mid-thigh, a tasteful flirtation of skin, and the neckline dipped just enough to hint at cleavage without offering it outright. A single gold chain bracelet clinked at her wrist, catching the light as she moved. Her legs, long and smooth and perfectly posed by instinct, shifted as she crossed the room toward her open suitcase, her bare feet silent on the polished floor.

With one hand, she gracefully tucked away her earlier outfit—a fitted cream blouse and pale beige high-waisted pants—and folded them into the suitcase. She smoothed the fabric before tucking it underneath a few carefully arranged layers of clothing. Near the bottom, beneath a zipped mesh flap, were her “necessities,” discreetly stored, like her signature thong-style shapewear, always packed and always worn.

Her cage, of course, was still locked in place and no longer even a thought, just... her reality.

And nestled in the corner of the suitcase, in a small velvet pouch, was Celeste’s infamous just-in-case kit.

Kiara’s fingers brushed the corner of the pouch as she shifted her clothes, and a quick, warm flush crept into her cheeks. She hadn’t touched the contents since Paris. Not technically. But she had made sure to repack them for Rome. Just in case. Her memory flickered—Celeste standing over the suitcase days earlier, a smirk tugging at her lip as she’d asked, “Should I include the usual travel companions?” in a faux-innocent voice.

Kiara had scoffed, rolled her eyes, blushed—but she hadn’t said no.

“I mean, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have it,” she’d muttered, barely meeting her sister’s eyes, and of course Celeste had grinned, delighted.

God. She hated how easily Celeste could read her.

Back in the room, Seraphina glanced up from her tangle of scarves and lifted a brow. “Wait. Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?”

Kiara paused. “Yeah?”

Seraphina stared a beat longer, lips slowly parting into a smile. “Okay, damn. You’re not even pretending this is ‘just dinner.’ You’re giving, like, first act of a rom-com energy right now.”

Kiara tilted her head and smirked, reaching for her travel makeup pouch on the vanity. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s just a trap and he’s going to fall into it.”

Kiara snorted, unzipping the pouch. “Stop.”

But her fingers hesitated a moment over the lipstick before picking it up. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to lean in just a little tonight... for the press. Obviously.

The rest of the flight earlier had passed in a blur of gentle turbulence and muted chatter, the mood dipping into sleepy quiet not long after takeoff. Even Seraphina, who could normally talk through an earthquake, had curled into her seat and dozed off with a soft throw blanket over her legs. Lucian had barely said a word since boarding, except for the brief polite small talk he offered before pulling the cubby door shut and disappearing for hours. Kiara wasn’t sure if he’d been tired, or simply toning it down in Seraphina’s presence. Either way, she’d felt the quiet, too. The subtle fatigue in her limbs, the warm lull that always came after too much stimulation.

She hadn’t expected to hear from him again until morning.

But just as they’d reached their rooms at the hotel, her phone had buzzed. Dinner tonight?

She’d stared at the message for longer than she should have, fingers hovering, heart picking up in spite of herself. She should’ve said no. She almost did. But somehow, she’d typed sure before she even realized it—and followed it with: No funny business. I need to be sharp tomorrow.

Lucian had replied almost instantly: Promise. Just food.

She didn’t fully believe him. But she’d agreed.

Now, she smoothed her hands down the bodice of her dress and turned in the mirror to check the back, adjusting the zipper slightly. She didn’t look flustered. She looked poised. Composed. Feminine, yes, but polished. Her skin was soft and glowing from the steam of the shower, her collarbones catching the last of the window light. Her posture was perfect, as always. The way she tilted her chin, the way her arms hung—relaxed, delicate, angled just so—was all instinct now. All part of the Kiara performance. Except... it never really felt like performance anymore.

It just was.

She glanced at her reflection again, and just for a flicker of a second, she wondered—not aloud, not even consciously—if Lucian would think she looked beautiful.

She turned away before she could finish the thought.

Seraphina made a soft whistle from the bed. “Bestie. If this is what you wear when you’re not trying to get laid…”

Kiara arched a brow. “Girl, don’t even start.”

“I’m just saying. If you come back tonight with all your lipstick gone and one earring missing, I will not be surprised.”

Kiara didn’t respond. She just bit back a grin.

Her own reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and barefaced.

She looked... young like this. Soft. ****. Her skin was paler without foundation, her features somehow even more androgynous, even though the subtle swell of her cheeks, the softened jaw, they all betrayed the ongoing changes beneath the surface.

She exhaled slowly.

Okay. Focus.

She turned off the part of her brain that was tracking Seraphina’s voice—whatever she was saying now had faded into the background, just feminine white noise, comforting but irrelevant. Kiara needed quiet. Stillness. She needed to do this right.

She reached first for her primer. It was Euphorica, of course—her own product, or at least the company’s—and the formula had the subtlest blurring effect, soft focus in a bottle. She squeezed out a pea-sized amount onto her fingertips and smoothed it across her face, working from the center outward. Her fingers moved automatically: nose, cheeks, forehead, chin, sweeping it under her jawline and just down her neck to avoid any demarcation. The texture was satin-slick, and it left her skin feeling immediately weightless, like a canvas about to be painted.

Next came the color corrector. A dab of peachy tone under each eye, precisely patted in with the ring finger. That delicate orbital bone deserved nothing but tenderness. She’d gotten so used to this step she could do it half-asleep. Blend, blend, never drag, never smear.

Foundation came next. A high-coverage serum blend in a shade hand-matched by Seraphina weeks ago, perfectly balanced with the warmer undertones that brought a healthy femininity to her complexion. She dotted it on with a brush: forehead, cheeks, nose, chin. Then buffed.

Her motions were steady, practiced. Small circles. Upward strokes. Never downward. Downward was masculine. Downward was lazy. Upward lifted. She’d learned that early on. Her skin drank the product greedily, and with each pass of the brush, her features blurred into the Kiara version of herself: smooth, soft, subtly airbrushed but not fake. Like she’d always looked like this. Like there was no effort behind it.

Concealer was minimal tonight. Just a touch under the eyes, a gentle highlight at the center of the chin, a whisper down the bridge of her nose. Blend again. Pat, pat. She didn’t want to look too done.

She moved on.

Contour next. Cream, not powder—more natural. She applied with a small angled brush, just beneath the cheekbones, the sides of her nose, the outer temples. She didn’t need harsh shadows; the shape of her face had changed so subtly over the last few months. Her jaw had thinned. Her chin was less square. Still, the contour sculpted. Defined. It gave her that editorial sharpness she secretly loved.

Then came blush. She chose a soft rose cream tint, dabbing it high on the apples of her cheeks and sweeping upward toward the temples. It made her look flushed, innocent. Almost shy. It also brought color back to her otherwise neutral base. Alive. That’s what she wanted to look like. Not perfect. Not pristine. Just... alive.

Highlighter. A pearly champagne tone that she tapped delicately onto the high points: the tip of her nose, the upper cheekbones, the cupid’s bow. It caught the light with the subtlest gleam, a dewy finish that whispered touch me without saying it aloud.

Her brows were next, and this required real attention.

She leaned in closer to the mirror, gripping her spoolie like a surgeon. The brow gel was tinted, soft ash brown, and she brushed the hairs upward in quick, precise flicks. They’d been shaped, obviously—threaded into a feminine arch weeks ago—but they still needed help. She filled in sparse spots with a micro pencil, feather-light strokes that mimicked real hair. Not too bold. Not too dark. Just groomed, lifted, elegant.

Eyes.

This part always took her the longest.

She reached for her neutral palette, lifting the lid like it was a sacred object. She selected a soft matte taupe and swept it across her lid, laying down a base that blurred out any redness from the steam. Then came a muted rose in the crease, buffed in with a fluffy brush, creating depth and softness. She deepened the outer corner with a smoky plum, almost imperceptible, but it gave her eyes dimension, shape, mystery.

Her fingers paused over the shimmer pans before choosing one—a pale pink-champagne with a glassy finish. She tapped it onto the center of her lid with her ring finger, letting the light play off her eyes.

Then came liner. Just a tightline. Nothing dramatic. She lifted her chin slightly, exposing the upper lash line, and drew the thinnest black line right at the base of her lashes. Not above. Not winged. Just enough to make them look thicker. Darker. More intense.

She curled her lashes, careful not to pinch. Three slow pumps. Then mascara—one coat, then two, then a third just at the tips. She blinked at her reflection, testing the flutter. Her lashes kissed her brow bone. Perfect.

Lips were last.

She lined with a soft rosewood pencil, overdrawing slightly at the center of the top lip. Just a little poutier. Just a little more kissable. Then came the lipstick: a Euphorica satin-finish in a shade called Muse—a muted mauve with just enough warmth to complement her blush. She pressed her lips together, blotted, reapplied. Then added a dab of gloss at the center of her bottom lip for dimension. The final touch.

When she leaned back and looked at herself fully, something in her stomach twisted.

She looked... like a woman going on a date. She looked like someone hoping to be wanted. Her collarbones peeked out from the wide neckline of the dress. Her hair, now air-dried into soft waves, framed her face like a halo. The makeup was soft, romantic. Seductive in the most innocent way.

It’s not a date. she told herself. It’s strategy. It’s PR. It’s control.

But that didn’t explain the way her heart was beating.

She slipped into her heels—simple nude stilettos that added just enough height to her legs without trying too hard. Then came jewelry. Gold, of course. A delicate chain around her neck with a tiny diamond drop. Thin hoops at her ears. Two stackable rings on one hand, one statement on the other.

She stepped back to check the full view in the mirror.

Fuck. She looked good.

No, not good. She looked dangerous.

And just as she picked up her clutch and reached for her perfume—one spray behind each ear, one at the wrists, one at the décolletage—there came a knock at the door.

Three precise taps.

Her heart jumped. Her fingers curled tighter around the purse.

Lucian. He was early. Of course he was.