THE BILLIONAIRE'S PROBLEM

The lipstick smudge wasn't even her fault, but somehow it still felt like her failure.

Stacy Hookman swiped at the model's cheek with a Q-tip dipped in micellar water, working fast. "Hold still, Maya. You twitch again, and you're going to look like you got kissed by a raccoon."

Maya rolled her eyes but obeyed, lifting her chin slightly. All around them, stylists, assistants, and photographers buzzed like bees overdosed on espresso and stress. Somewhere behind the fabric-draped walls, synth-pop pounded low and relentless.

It was another Tuesday in hell...also known as pre-show prep.

Stacy's hands were steady, but her mind was running off-script. She hadn't slept well. Again. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings she didn't have the luxury to unpack. There was rent to pay, product to replenish, and the unspoken rule of the industry to uphold: stay invisible, or get eaten.

She capped her concealer, took a breath, and stepped back. "You're good."

Maya examined herself in the mirror and smirked. "You always make me look expensive."

"That's the goal," Stacy muttered, already turning away.

A voice cut through the noise. "Stace!"

Her stomach dropped. She didn't need to turn to know it was Lily. Her seventeen-year-old sister had no concept of indoor volume or boundaries.

Stacy turned just in time to see Lily duck under a garment rack, clutching a takeout tray with two iced coffees and a pastry bag, grinning like she belonged there. Which she absolutely didn't.

"I told you to wait outside," Stacy hissed, grabbing her elbow and steering her behind a partition.

"But I brought bribes," Lily sang, offering one of the coffees. "Triple shot, no whip, extra bitter. Just like you like it."

Stacy took it. Grudgingly. "You can't keep showing up like this."

"I was bored. And hungry. And curious. You said maybe I could intern someday..."

"Someday. Not today." Stacy looked over her shoulder, checking for supervisors.

Lily's eyes sparkled. "Relax. No one even notices me. I'm a ninja."

"You're a teenage liability."

Lily stuck out her tongue and handed over the pastry bag. "Fine. I'll vanish. But first, eat something. You're getting that 'murder by mascara wand' look again."

Stacy almost smiled. Almost.

They stepped outside together. The back lot behind the building was a mess of catering vans, equipment cases, and overworked assistants sneaking smokes. Stacy leaned against the wall, sipping the coffee. For a moment, the chaos felt distant.

Lily peeled open the bag, offering her a croissant. "So... when are you going to admit you're miserable?"

Stacy raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You hate this job," Lily said simply. "You love makeup, but not this. Not the fake-laughing, backstabbing, champagne-flavored bootlicking. You're better than this."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Dr. Phil."

Lily shrugged. "Just saying. You could do your own thing. Have a studio. Work with real people."

"And pay rent with what? Hopes and dreams?"

"Don't snap at me just because I'm right."

Stacy didn't answer. She couldn't. Because somewhere deep down, Lily was right. But dreams didn't pay for groceries. And self-worth didn't cover utilities.

"Okay, I'll go," Lily said, stepping off the curb toward the street. "But text me later, alright? And eat something besides coffee and sarcasm."

Stacy watched her start to cross...then heard it.

The screech of tires. The thud of impact. The scream.

Time collapsed.

She dropped the coffee and ran.