The role of a palace concubine was practically terrifying.
Three to four hours—sometimes even longer—were spent just on preparation.
Hairpieces layered upon hairpieces, each heavier than the last. Ornamental pins embedded with gemstones. Gold tassels that brushed against the temples. The slightest tilt of the head could send a sharp ache down the neck.
Makeup was thick, flawless, and suffocating—powder pressed into every pore, lips painted the precise shade of imperial favor, brows shaped into elegant cruelty.
By the time filming officially began, an actress no longer felt human.
She felt like a doll.
A beautiful, fragile, heavily decorated doll—one wrong movement away from breaking.
As Lily Martins sat before the mirror, stylists surrounding her like bees around nectar, she let out a quiet breath.
At least…
At least after becoming a Noble Consort, her scenes would drastically decrease.
