When he pressed play, her life was over.
“Hold still, you old thing—this is the only makeover you’re getting,” Serena crooned, the cold steel of the scissors flashing in the afternoon sun.
Evelyn Kingsley sat on the stone bench outside the mansion, shoulders curled inward like a fragile, fading shadow.
Her hair had thinned over the last year—age, medication, grief stacked quietly on her bones. She used to wear it neatly pinned, back when her son was small and she still believed kindness could protect a family from everything. Now Serena stood behind her, one hand brutally gripping Evelyn’s fragile chin, the other hacking at her hair in jagged chunks.
“Please,” Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling. “Don’t do that. Damian will be home soon.”
Serena snorted. “Your son? He’s always ‘busy.’ That’s why he picked me—because he doesn’t want to deal with the burden you are.”
She leaned closer to Evelyn’s ear. “And because he’ll believe me over you.”
Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears.
Her fingers fluttered toward her head, but Serena slapped her hand away. “No touching,” Serena snapped. “You’ll ruin it.”
Across the circular driveway, the mansion’s fountain bubbled, indifferent.
Wealth was everywhere—marble, glass, perfect hedges—yet Evelyn felt poorer and more alone than she ever had. The gate motor whined. A sleek black sedan rolled in quietly, tires crunching on gravel. Evelyn’s heart jolted. She recognized the car before she saw the driver. Damian Kingsley—her son, a ruthless financial executive renowned for his iron-clad control—stepped out, still holding a folder from a meeting he’d ended early.
He froze when he heard the sound: Evelyn’s thin, broken sob cutting through the manicured air.
“Mom?”
Damian’s voice cracked on the word. Serena’s hand stilled mid-cut. For a split second, her face showed pure panic—then it smoothed into a sickly-sweet, practiced smile. “Oh, Damian,” she called brightly.
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