SANYA

𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓻

sanya's pov

I observed my reflection in front of the large mirror that stood in front of me. My appearance was unrecognizable from head to toe. My long black uncontrollable hair was now elegantly wrapped into a bun with a few wavy strands that seeped out. My eyes moved down to my body where a satin shoulderless gown fluidly fell down just below my silver heels and hugged my torso perfectly. The dress blended beautifully into my pale skin. I stepped closer to the mirror, admiring the makeup that took hours.

"Thank you," I said breathlessly to the make-up artist who smiled at me from behind. "Of course," she replied and made her way to the back. My eyelids shimmered with soft sparkles and other areas of my face were highlighted with a beaming tender white. A precise black wing strung along my eyes, accentuating its almond shape, and my eyelashes were defined for once. Blended tints of red stretched along my cheeks as well as the same shade covering my lips except with a layer of gloss above. I couldn't even make out the rest of the details.

Of all the eighteen years of my life, I had never felt this way. The feeling of feminity? Or was it rather the general existence of girlhood I had missed all throughout my life? I shook my head and laid aside such sentimental feelings that were merely a distraction. I had a mission.

I turned to Aamani, herself dressed elegantly as well. She wore a light blue dress that consisted of ruffled layers and light makeup that correlated with the soft ambiance of her presentation. "Hey, I'm going back to the dorm. I forgot a few things," I said. "Oh okay. Be there at seven pm sharp," she called out, sliding an earring through her pierced ear. "Mhm, thank you again," I said and made my way out to a cab.

Aamani was kind enough yet again to hire her cosmetologist and make-up artist friends prior to the event. I had to repay her somehow before the end of this mission, but how could you possibly repay someone who has everything she already has? Well, materialistically. As I arrived at the campus, the courtyards were already packed with fellow attendees in glamorous outfits as well as loading swarms of paparazzi. I had to be even more discreet with every move. I reached my room and placed a chair underneath the handle for extra precaution then grabbed the briefcase. I settled my arms into the gloves and placed only one of the thin daggers into the inner side of one glove, its thick cloth concealing any remnant of its lethal blade.

I grabbed my karambit and placed it into a sheath that attached to my leg strap. Slightly above the slit of my dress underneath, I tightened the strap. Not too high from reach, not too low for visibility, and not too loose for any incident. I lastly grabbed a small silver handbag and placed my burner phone into its hidden compartment, then topped it with a random lipstick, gauze, a tiny blade, and a random lip balm. As much as I wanted to carry my Glock, I was only attending for bits of interaction with Mattia. I looked over at the wall clock, six fifty-eight. Shit, Aamani called for sharp.

I exited the room and left through the same corridors and followed the familiar gravel paths that led to a large staircase followed by an enormous building that shared the same exterior as the other campus buildings. The paparazzi lined up against the railings of the marble staircase, their cameras flashing and capturing every step of the attendees.

"Sterling!"

"Jessica!"

"Thomas!"

All sorts of names who I assumed belonged to influential families were shouted throughout the entrance, but no Bernardi. I had to take a low profile and rounded to the back of the building, into a side door that opened to an emergency hallway. Although I kept my face hidden during many missions only for their corpses to see my face, I still had to keep discreet no matter the occasion. I continued down the hallways until I reached the back entrance of the banquet hall. The place was truly designed for the filthy rich. Extensively wide Fwindows scattered at the top of the walls and all sorts of excessive details filled the walls from its support beams to its intricate wall designs of gold, white, and black. There was a spacious area that contained tall top tables draped in white cloth that surrounded an empty space that seemed to be the dance floor. Following that space, marble steps led up to a quite tall stage, almost like a cathedral altar. A lectern that held a microphone stood, flanked by a few chairs. What was up with rich people and marble?