The makeup trailer smelled of hairspray, cheap coffee, and panic.
Coco stood behind the salon chair, holding a pair of ornate, gold-filigree finger guards—the kind worn by Qing dynasty concubines to protect their nails. He looked from the guards to Aria's heavily bandaged hands, then back to the guards.
"Honey," Coco said, popping his gum. "I can work miracles. I once hid a pregnancy in a corset for six months. But I cannot hide mummy hands in these. Unless Consort Li suddenly decided to take up boxing, this look isn't going to fly."
Aria winced as she tried to flex her fingers. The pain was a sharp, throbbing reminder of the glass shards Damien had pulled out the night before. The painkillers Elias had prescribed were dulling the edge, but her dexterity was shot.
"We can't cut the bandages," Aria said, looking at her reflection. Her face was pale, but her eyes were determined. "Damien would fire you, fire me, and then burn the studio down."
