The mascara wand in her hand gestured toward my daughter as she told me I was lucky I got married when I did, before I had to start competing with her for attention.
That was the final cut after an hour of a thousand others.
Mark’s cousin Bianca had already painted my face into a ghostly caricature while calling me tired, my dress “structured,” and my finding a husband a last-ditch effort before closing time.
This wasn’t just bad makeup; this was a meticulously planned sabotage of my spirit on my own wedding day.
She thought her cruelty was clever, but her sloppy texts detailing “Operation Ghost Bride” were about to become the main attraction on the reception’s ten-foot projector screen for every single guest to witness.
The Foundation of Doubt: Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Something… Off
The air in the bridal suite smelled of hairspray and forced cheerfulness. It was thick with it, the scent of aerosol and expectation clinging to the back of my throat. This was supposed to be the joyful part, the champagne-fueled preamble to the rest of my life. Instead, my stomach was a tight knot of nerves I couldn’t blame on matrimony. It had been a brutal year—my dad’s illness, the subsequent drain on our savings, the freelance work I’d taken on at all hours to fund this very expensive day without going into debt. Mark and I had earned this. I had earned this.
So I’d agreed to let his cousin Bianca do my makeup. It was a concession, a white flag waved in the name of family harmony. Mark had warned me, in that gentle way of his that was more of an apology than a caution. “She can be… a lot, Alina. But it would mean the world to my aunt if you let her.” A lot. That was Mark’s code for ‘insufferable.’ But I’d smiled and said of course. One less vendor to pay, one more olive branch extended to his sprawling, opinionated family.
Bianca swept into the room an hour late, all clanking charm bracelets and a cloud of perfume that smelled like a rich woman’s headache. She kissed the air near my cheek. “Alina! Oh, you look… tired. But don’t you worry. Auntie Bianca is here to work some magic. We’ll have you looking ten years younger in no time.”
She unpacked her kit onto the vanity, a chrome and black arsenal of powders and potions. My own simple makeup bag, filled with the foundation and mascara I’d used for years, was nudged unceremoniously to the side. The first prickle of unease started then. It wasn’t just that she’d called me tired. It was the way she said “ten years younger,” as if my forty-two years were a disease in need of a cure. My daughter, Chloe, sitting quietly in the corner, caught my eye and gave a subtle, concerned shake of her head. She saw it, too.
The Ghost in the Mirror
“Right, let’s get this canvas prepped,” Bianca announced, her voice booming in the suddenly quiet room. She held up two bottles of foundation, one a warm beige, the other the color of chalk. My skin, even in the dead of winter, had a golden undertone. I pointed to the darker shade. “I usually use something like that one,” I said, trying to sound helpful, not demanding.
Bianca let out a little laugh, a tinkle of condescension. “Oh, sweetie, no. That’s for my summer clients. You have to account for flash photography. It adds ten pounds and washes out all your color.” She unscrewed the cap on the pale, ghostly bottle. “This will look stark now, but once the camera hits you, it will balance out perfectly. Trust me. I’m a professional.”
She wasn’t, not really. She had a YouTube channel with a few thousand followers and a certificate from a weekend course at the local community college. But in Mark’s family, that was enough to make her the resident beauty expert. I watched in the mirror as she dabbed the cold, pale liquid onto my skin. The woman staring back at me was a stranger. The foundation settled into the fine lines around my eyes, emphasizing them. It sat on my skin like a mask, erasing all warmth, all life. I looked like a Victorian-era invalid.
“It seems… a little light,” I ventured, my voice small.
“It’s called ‘porcelain,’ honey. It’s supposed to,” she said, not looking at me, already focused on blending it down my neck, stopping abruptly at my collarbone. The line of demarcation was stark. Above it, a pale, flat mask. Below it, my own living, breathing skin. “We don’t want you looking sallow in the photos. That’s so aging.” The words hung in the air, another casual slice. I felt my jaw tighten. Chloe shifted in her chair, her phone held tightly in her hands.
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