Faces of the Future

The morning light pouring into Euphorica’s executive wing was soft and diffused, filtered through high glass windows dressed in pale linen sheers. Everything in the corridor gleamed—gold fixtures, white lacquered walls, glass display niches holding rare perfume bottles and awards like curated art pieces. It smelled faintly of rosewater, neroli, and polished ambition.

Today wasn’t just another morning.

Today, Isabelle Chastain was coming.

The woman behind Maison de Lune. The oracle of luxury. A name so powerful that it didn’t just belong to a brand—it _was _the brand. And in less than half an hour, she would be arriving at Euphorica headquarters to finalize the most pivotal partnership in the company’s history.

Which meant Kiara Laurent had to be nothing short of perfect.

She stood in the mirror of her private dressing suite, back straight, shoulders relaxed, arms held loosely at her sides—not because she was told to, but because it had become instinct. Her reflection studied her with steady, slightly parted lips and a glassy sort of composure. There was nothing left of Kieran’s slouched boyishness. Even when she wasn’t posing, Kiara _held herself _like a woman now.

She had been up since six.

First came the underlayer: a seamless pair of pale blush lace panties, delicate and high-cut to flatter her hips. The gusset was breathable silk, trimmed in embroidery that no one would see—but Kiara knew it was there. Matching the set was a soft-cup bralette, unlined, barely enough to offer structure but chosen intentionally to frame the silicone inserts adhered on top of the subtle swell of her hormone-nudged breasts. The lace trimmed across the upper curve, with scalloped edges that hugged her skin like a kiss. Just wearing it made her stand straighter.

Next, the shapewear: a second-skin slip in sheer mesh with reinforced control around her waist and hips. It hugged tight, smoothing everything into sleek, uninterrupted lines. The padding at the hips had been custom-stitched to mirror her natural shape—subtle, believable, not exaggerated. At the rear, a sculpted panel lifted gently to create the illusion of a pert, rounded derrière. The effect was total: her silhouette from behind was fully feminine, curved and high.

Then came the corset.

Powder blue satin, boned with flexible steel and laced at the back in crisscrossed ivory ribbon. Celeste had insisted on corseting for all high-stakes appearances—it **** the posture upright, tightened the waist, and subtly reconditioned breathing. Kiara had grown used to the pressure, the disciplined inhale, the way her ribs compressed with each tied knot. She didn’t fight it anymore. She leaned into it. It made her waist impossibly narrow beneath the cinch. It made her chest look fuller. It made her shoulders look more delicate.

Over that came the dress.

Champagne silk, tailored within a breath of her shape. The bodice was high-necked but sleeveless, showcasing her slim arms and long neck. The collar kissed just below her jaw, with a single satin-covered button fastening at the back. Down her torso, the fabric draped smoothly, clinging without clinging, skimming the boned corset and tapering in at the waist before falling into a softly flared pencil skirt that ended just above the knees.

On her feet, she wore Louboutin pumps in soft ivory patent—four-inch heels that **** a gentle sway into her gait, enough to remind her of her center of gravity with each step. Her legs were encased in nude thigh-highs held by hidden clips beneath the shapewear—just enough sheen to catch the light but subtle enough to be natural.

Her jewelry was minimalist: gold stud earrings, a thin bracelet, a single ring with a mother-of-pearl inlay. Her nails were manicured in a pale pink that matched the shimmer on her lips. Her makeup was soft-focus perfection—radiant foundation, luminous blush, highlighter on the cheekbones, eyeshadow in warm rose-gold hues. Her lashes were curled and feathered, her brows shaped just slightly more arched than they had been last month.

Every inch of her had been prepared.

And standing just behind her now, fussing with a final adjustment of the high collar, was Seraphina.

“Turn for me,” she murmured, voice honeyed, fingers adjusting the seam of Kiara’s back zipper.

Kiara turned, obedient, careful on the heels. Her posture was flawless.

“You’re actually glowing,” Seraphina said, stepping back with a hand on one curvy hip. She was already dressed herself—today in a cream blouse with puffed short sleeves, paired with a dusty rose pencil skirt that hugged her hips and tapered sharply to the knee. Her cleavage was, as always, tastefully visible—just enough to distract anyone dumb enough to underestimate her. Her brunette hair was messy but stylish, her makeup soft but sculpted.

Kiara smiled faintly. “Glow serum, rose water mist, and no fewer than three Euphorica primers.”

Seraphina laughed. “Ugh, that’s why your skin looks like a glazed peach. I swear, one day I’m raiding your vanity.”

Kiara let out a soft laugh. “You know where it is.”

Seraphina leaned in, lowering her voice with a mischievous grin. “Tell me the truth—was it the glow serum, or did someone have a very relaxing night?”

Kiara flushed lightly, her gaze darting away just for a moment.

Seraphina’s eyes sparkled. “See? That’s what I thought. A girl’s gotta stay radiant somehow.”

Kiara gave her a playful side-eye. “Just don’t ask for the full skincare routine.”

“I won’t,” Seraphina winked. “But whatever it is—you’re glowing. And that’s what matters.”

She took a step closer, brushing a speck of lint off Kiara’s shoulder. “You’re Kiara Laurent. The woman Maison de Lune is signing a multimillion-dollar partnership with in, oh—” she checked her phone, “—twenty-three minutes.”

Kiara exhaled slowly, letting the corset shape the motion. “Do I look believable?”

Seraphina gave her a look.

“You look like the fantasy.”

Their eyes met in the mirror.

Kiara knew better than to let herself believe it fully. She knew the hours, the tools, the manipulation that went into every inch of her reflection. And yet… when Seraphina said it like that—so casually, like it was fact—it made something deep inside her pulse.

Maybe not just belief.

Maybe pride.

There was a knock at the dressing room door. One of the interns.

“Miss Laurent? They’re ready for you in the boardroom.”

Kiara turned.

Straightened her shoulders.

Lifted her chin.

Seraphina stepped to her side and gave her arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“You’ve got this,” she said.

Then, like a best friend should, she added with a grin, “And if you start to panic, just picture Lucian shirtless. That usually works.”

Kiara actually giggled—a soft, feminine sound she hadn’t intended. It slipped out, light as air. Reflexive.

She caught her reflection one last time.

And then she walked.

Each click of her heels on the marble floor echoed with rehearsed certainty. Every step was a performance. A weapon. A prayer.

And in twenty-one minutes, she’d find out if it was enough.

The boardroom door opened with a soft click of Seraphina’s manicured fingers, and Kiara Laurent stepped inside.

The hush that followed wasn’t dramatic—but it was noticeable. A pause, half a breath too long, as if the room collectively shifted to accommodate her entrance. The gleam of her nude patent Louboutins against the polished floor was the first sound to reassert itself, a subtle rhythm echoing her grace with each step. She walked deliberately, chin lifted, shoulders relaxed but never slouched, hands light at her sides with fingers naturally poised. Not too rigid. Not too casual. Feminine elegance—just as she had been taught.

Inside, the room was already partially occupied. Clarence sat at the far end of the table, his silver hair swept neatly back, his blazer a conservative navy. Beside him was Marjorie, sharp-eyed and even sharper-tongued when she needed to be, her usual preference for cream silk and sharp tailoring on full display. A few other Euphorica execs stood in quiet conversation by the digital display wall, glancing intermittently at the scrolling campaign mockups on screen. And then—Lucian.

Lucian Devereaux stood near the coffee station, dressed in a tailored slate-gray suit with no tie, his top button left undone in that deliberate way that suggested confidence, not laziness. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his stubble fresh enough to still look intentional. He was halfway through a sentence with the scruffy-haired marketing employee when Kiara entered. Julian turned his head, gave a polite nod, then looked back at his espresso. He was married—Seraphina had made that very clear during one of their lunch gossip sessions—but he was sweet in a shy, dorky kind of way.

Lucian, however, didn’t hesitate.

The moment his eyes found her, the rest of the room faded for him. His focus sharpened, his expression softened into something sly, and he was already moving before Kiara and Seraphina had made it past the door.

“Well, well,” Lucian said, his voice velvet-smooth as he crossed the room. “Look at you, Miss Laurent. I was going to say ‘radiant,’ but I think that might undersell it.”

Kiara’s breath hitched for just a moment—so soft, so subtle she doubted even Seraphina caught it. But her body responded before her mind could catch up. A graceful, practiced smile curled across her lips, the kind that had been drilled into her in front of Celeste’s vanity mirror. She tilted her head just slightly, chin down to appear demure, eyes up to appear engaged.

“Lucian,” she greeted softly, her voice warm, the syllables breathier than her old voice would ever have allowed. “You’re sweet.”

That was the right tone. Not too forward. Not too cold. Friendly, slightly bashful, unmistakably feminine.

Her hips swayed just enough as she turned toward him, the built-in shaping slip beneath smoothing her silhouette. It all created an unbroken image. Smooth, tucked, seamless. No room for error. Celeste had made sure of that.

Lucian stopped just close enough to brush her personal space, testing the line. Kiara didn’t step back. She didn’t even flinch.

Lucian’s eyes dipped briefly—not lewdly—but enough to let her know he noticed the way her blouse hinted at the corseted waist beneath.

“You make a hell of a first impression, Kiara,” he murmured. “And an even better fourth or fifth.”

Kiara’s lashes fluttered, soft and instinctual. Her smile deepened.

“You’re good at flattery,” she replied, letting a little warmth into her voice.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—her nails pale pink and rounded, not too long, exactly how Celeste had ordered them last week—and held his gaze just a moment longer than necessary. She had learned not to drop her eyes too quickly. That had been one of her early tells. Something about vulnerability. Kieran would look away. Kiara held eye contact.

“You’re always so charming,” she said finally, and this time her voice tilted toward flirtation—not obvious, but unmistakable.

Seraphina, still standing nearby, gave a subtle eyebrow raise behind Lucian’s shoulder, and Kiara pretended not to see. Her assistant would tease her for this later, no doubt, but that was fine. This was the performance. This was the expectation.

Lucian didn’t seem to want to leave her side just yet. His hand brushed her lower back lightly as he guided her toward the head of the table, clearly meaning to escort her there—publicly, gently, as if it were natural. As if he had the right.

Kiara felt her heart flutter in her chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Just… the feeling of being seen.

"When you get used to being looked at, you’ll start to crave it.”

She hadn’t believed Celeste then.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

“Shall we?” Lucian asked, motioning toward the head chair with that easy smile of his.

“Yes,” Kiara said softly, smoothing her skirt before she sat. “Let’s.”

Seraphina moved around to her usual spot to Kiara’s left, offering her a wink before settling in.

Clarence cleared his throat lightly, adjusting his tie, and Marjorie leaned forward to tap something on her tablet. The others resumed their seats, conversation returning in low murmurs as if the tension had never spiked.

But Kiara knew what had just happened.

She had entered.

And everyone had looked.

Lucian settled smoothly into the seat beside her, his presence warm and easy, as if this had been the obvious arrangement all along. There were empty chairs elsewhere around the table—dozens of them—but none that held his attention the way Kiara Laurent did. His knee brushed lightly against hers beneath the table, not insistently, just enough to be felt. A subtle touch, deliberate in its casualness. The kind of contact no one else in the room would even notice.

Kiara didn’t move away.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t stiffen.

Instead, she smiled gently—one of the softer expressions in her arsenal, the kind she had practiced in front of Celeste’s mirror again and again. The corners of her mouth curved just enough to appear receptive, but not eager. Her lashes lowered for a brief, measured beat. Her legs, folded at the ankles, remained tucked gracefully to the side beneath the table—her posture feminine, her silhouette composed.

Internally, she was nowhere near composed.

Lucian’s cologne—a dusky, citrus-laced blend she could now identify thanks to a sensory training module Celeste had insisted on—drifted toward her with every movement. His voice was low, textured, almost lazy in its confidence as he leaned just slightly closer.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think you might be even more dangerous when you're quiet.”

Kiara glanced sideways at him, her head tilting in that almost-innocent way she’d been taught. “Dangerous?” she repeated, her tone airy, faintly teasing. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

“Never challenge his compliments. Play with them. Echo his energy. Keep your body language open. Let him feel like the hunter.”

Celeste’s voice again. Not spoken aloud, but etched into her reactions, into the tiny micromovements of her body. The way her shoulder subtly shifted to face Lucian. The way her voice softened, not because she felt gentle, but because she had learned that this softness made men lean in closer. It made them want.

“Do you do that on purpose?” he asked, his elbow now resting on the table beside hers, his hand dangerously close to where hers lay.

“Do what?” she asked, blinking slowly, as if truly unsure. That was the trick. The illusion of innocence.

“Say things like that in that voice,” he murmured. “Like you don’t know you’re messing with me.”

She laughed—light, practiced, feminine. A breath more than a sound.

Inside, Kieran recoiled.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t trying to mess with anyone. He wasn’t flirting, not really. He was performing. Reacting. Replaying the script Celeste had embedded in him day after day, training session after training session. Voice modulation practice. Eye contact drills. Neck tilt. Lip parting. Smile timing. It was second nature now, the way someone’s foot hits the gas without thinking when the light turns green.

Even now, her fingers brushed her own collarbone as if distractedly adjusting a nonexistent necklace, exposing the delicate curve of her wrist, the shimmer of rose-gold highlighter across her clavicle. She knew Lucian noticed. He always noticed.

“You look…” Lucian began, then stopped as if reconsidering.

She turned her head toward him slightly, giving him space to complete the sentence.

He smirked. “You know what? If I say it, it’ll sound like I’m trying too hard.”

She gave him a knowing smile, tilting her chin down just a bit. “Try anyway.”

Lucian let out a breath, the faintest laugh caught in it. “You’re terrifying.”

“Still not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is,” he said, eyes dark with interest now.

A flicker of guilt pulsed through her belly—hot and unwelcome.

Because this wasn’t her. This wasn’t Kieran. Not really.

And yet—her legs were crossed demurely, her torso angled perfectly, her lips glossed in a delicate Euphorica pink that caught the light when she smiled. Every detail of her appearance had been designed for this. The smooth inner lining of her corset was pressed close against the feminine slope of her waist, her skin faintly perfumed with the company's signature "Aurora" scent. There was no boy here. No trace of Kieran.

Only Kiara.

Only the heiress.

“You’ll know the training is working when you don’t have to think about it anymore. When your body just… responds.”

And it was working.

That was the most terrifying part.

Because in this moment—smiling at Lucian, nodding gently when he brushed her hand with his thumb, pretending she didn’t notice how closely he was watching her lips—she looked, sounded, and moved like a woman who wanted him.

Even though Kieran did not.

Even though Kiara wasn’t real.

Even though the part of her that was real had started to forget where the line used to be.

Lucian shifted beside her, his hand now casually resting on the back of her chair. Not possessive. Not public. Just intimate enough to signal something that hadn’t been spoken yet—but was very clearly understood.

He was going to look at her like that all afternoon.

He was going to flirt with her, tempt her, charm her—

And she was going to smile.

She was going to lean in.

She was going to give him every signal she’d been trained to give.

Because she didn’t know how not to anymore.

In her peripheral vision, Seraphina caught her gaze. Her assistant offered a sweet little smile, clearly delighted to see her boss so adored by the company’s most eligible executive. To Seraphina, this wasn’t performance—it was romance. Chemistry. Natural.

To Kiara, it was muscle memory.

And it scared her how much of it felt… easy now.