Ch.4: Wearing My Smile

The screen on the wall flickers to life, a sudden explosion of 4K color in the grey gloom of my cell.

It is the only light source in the room. The glow washes over my exposed muscles, painting the concrete floor in shifting hues of beige and gold.

I know this room on the screen. I know the texture of the hand-woven rug near the fireplace. I know the exact weight of the cashmere throw draped over the grand piano. It is my living room. The sanctuary I curated piece by piece for three years.

Now, it is a stage. And I am the captive audience.

*Beep. Beep. Beep.*

My heart rate monitor taps out a steady rhythm. *52 BPM.*

I fix my eyes on the number. I have to stay calm. I have to be a stone. If I let the anger spike above 60, the machine hisses, the sedative floods my veins, and I lose the only weapon I have left: my consciousness.

I force my breathing to slow. *In through the nose. Out through the ruin of the mouth.*

Movement on the screen.

The double doors open. A woman walks in.

She is wearing my emerald silk robe. The one Aris bought me for our second anniversary. It shimmers under the crystal chandelier, the fabric catching the light. It drags slightly on the floor. She is shorter than me.

She turns toward the hidden camera mounted in the bookshelf.

The breath trapped in my lungs turns to ice.

It is me.

It is a nightmare version of me, swollen and distorted, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. The face is puffy, the skin shiny with ointment, pulled taut over a bone structure that doesn't quite match. Dark purple bruising blooms under the eyes, and a jagged line of black sutures traces the hairline, disappearing behind the ears.

But it is my face.

The mole on the left cheek. The slight arch of the brow. The curve of the nose I broke when I was twelve.

Isabella.

She walks to the mirror above the fireplace. She touches the cheek—*my* cheek—with a tentative, trembling finger.

My heart hammers against my ribs. *55 BPM.*

*Calm down. Calm down. Do not let them take your mind.*

Aris enters the frame. He is holding an ice pack wrapped in a soft towel. He moves with that predatory grace, the confident stride of a man who owns everything he touches.

"Don't touch the incision sites, Bella," he says. The audio feed is crystal clear, piped directly into the speakers above my bed. His voice sounds warm. Protective. "You'll introduce bacteria."

Isabella drops her hand. She turns to him, her expression—*my* expression—twisting into a pout.

"It itches, Aris," she whines. Her voice is wrong coming out of those lips. It’s too high, too raspy. "And it feels... tight. It feels like I'm wearing a mask that's two sizes too small."

Tight.

She is complaining about the fit.

I am lying here in the dark, my facial nerves raw and weeping, the air stinging the exposed meat of my skull every time the AC kicks on, and she is complaining that my stolen skin is a little snug.

*58 BPM.*

The black box on my IV pole gives a warning click. The plunger prepares to drop.

I close my eyes—no, I can't close them. I stare at the floor. I count the cracks in the concrete. *One. Two. Three.* I force the image of a calm ocean into my mind. I drown the rage in cold, black water.

*57... 56... 55.*

Safe. For now.

I look back at the screen.

Aris steps closer to her. He gently presses the ice pack against the side of her jaw.

"The tightness means it's healing," he soothes. "The collagen is knitting together. It has to be tight to secure the graft to the underlying fascia. Give it a week. It will relax. It will become part of you."

"I look like a monster," she murmurs, leaning into his touch.

"You look like a miracle," he corrects her.

He takes the ice pack away and sets it on the mantel. He cups her face in both hands. His thumbs stroke the skin under her eyes—the skin he peeled off my skull with a scalpel less than twenty-four hours ago.

He looks at her with a reverence he never showed me. To him, I was just the raw material. The clay. She is the sculpture.

"You are perfection," he whispers.

He tilts her head back.

I want to look away. I want to tear the IV out of my arm and smash the monitor. But the paralysis holds me rigid, forcing me to witness every second.

He leans in.

His eyes close.

He presses his mouth against hers.

It is a slow, deep, languid kiss. I see the pressure of his lips against mine. I see his hand slide into the hair at the nape of her neck—my hair, surely to be shaved off soon to complete the transformation, but for now, the illusion is complete.

I can feel the phantom sensation on my own mouth. The ghost of his touch, once loved, now disgusting. It feels like a violation so deep it scrapes the bottom of my soul.

He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting their lips. He smiles at her, that charming, boyish smile that fooled everyone.

"I love you," he says to the face he harvested.

My heart rate monitor is silent. I have gone past rage. I have gone past panic. I am in a place of cold, absolute zero.

He kissed my lips. But they were attached to her skull.