Mira sat at the vanity, staring into the mirror. She pressed a maroon shade of lipstick to her lips, puckering her mouth as she did so, as if she were one moment away from kissing the mirror and leaving an imprint — a wax scar — on the reflective surface. Her hand trembled, the tube barely able to be sustained in her grasp, before her work was finished and she set the lipstick down. Then she closed her eyes, her other hand finding a wand of mascara lying there amid all the clutter on the vanity.

"I wish I were dead," she said to no one and nothing, because she was alone — as she had always been, as she had trained herself to be in the months since her husband had left. A stray tear trickled down her cheek, her brown curls bobbing as she shook her head side to side, as if she were hearing a strain of melody only she could be allowed to hear.

Then she opened her eyes, her eyes finding themselves in the mirror, and her gaze seemed a stranger unto her then. Her lips pursed together, and she was all too certain she would break down at that moment.

"Why did you have to leave?" she questioned the air, breaking for a hint of a breath while she stared at herself — but it was as if she were seeing her lost husband again, that man who had studied her daydreams and told her she was a mad thing. That man who had gone through every moment, combed through every page, as if he were a clinician who were getting paid for every ounce of his time.

And he had been. He had been her bodyguard before he had ever been her husband. It had been her mistake to pursue him beyond a professional relationship — and he had acquiesced, bending to her whims, even as she lost herself in alcohol hazes from the wine she so loved to pour herself at night.

She was a socialite. He was a man who knew more than one way how to shoot a gun. Their worlds never should have crossed — but they did, because her money had kissed his pocket before they had ever exchanged rings. It was in this way that she had been the unruly one, kissing him in secret while everyone else thought she was being the fool for thinking love and work could ever mingle together.

Mira Blanc — once, her name had meant something in this city. Once, this name had opened doors and moved through rooms. But now she was seen as a broken woman, barely able to handle herself, all because her keeper had fled her cage.

She closed her eyes again, and there was peace — at least — in that.

"I thought you were forever," she whispered, "but I suppose we all lie to ourselves every so often."

There was no one to hear, but maybe she should have been glad for that fact.