The mirror was too clean. Elián Voss hated that.
It reflected everything too clearly—the sharpness of his cheekbones, the unnatural perfection of his skin, the way his silver-blue eyes looked like they belonged to someone else. Someone colder. Someone hollow.
He leaned closer, studying the man he'd been sculpted into. The makeup was flawless, the hair styled to perfection, the shirt tailored to hug his frame just right. But beneath the surface, Elián felt like a ghost wearing someone else's skin.
Outside the dressing room, Vivienne's heels clicked against marble. Sharp, impatient. She was pacing again. "Elián! We're late. You know how important this audition is. Don't make me come in there."
He didn't answer. He never did. Silence was safer.
Vivienne wasn't his mother. She was the woman who married his father, drained his accounts, and buried him with a smile. She had raised Elián like a pet project—beautiful, obedient, profitable. She taught him how to cry on cue, smile through pain, and never, ever speak his truth.
Elián adjusted his collar. His fingers trembled slightly. He hated that too.
He glanced at the mirror again. "You're not theirs," he whispered. "You're yours."
But the words felt like a lie.
He opened the door.
Vivienne turned, her lips painted in a shade called "Power." She looked him up and down, nodded once. "Good. You look expensive."
Elián said nothing. He followed her down the hallway, past portraits of long-dead actors and golden statuettes that had never belonged to them. The air smelled like old perfume and ambition.
As they stepped into the elevator, Vivienne leaned in. "Smile, darling. You're about to become someone."
Elián didn't smile.
He was already someone. He just didn't know who yet.