The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 3

I hate mirrors. There's something inherently unsettling about them, a creeping sense of foreboding that gnaws at my soul, like a dark, enigmatic labyrinth. I've never been one for horror movies; they're too visceral, too raw, too close to the shadows that lurk within me. I don't relish watching them, or any movie, unless I'm entangled in the narrative myself. But mirrors—mirrors hold an insidious power, unearthing truths I'd rather leave buried in the depths of my psyche.

"So pathetic," I murmur to myself.

It's been a while since I dared to look at myself, and today, I have to admit—I look awful. My eyes are swollen from tears, and the dark circles under them are glaring. What in the name of—

I sigh and get to work. I start by blow-drying my hair, then slide in my electric blue contact lenses to hide my green eyes. I carefully place a platinum blonde wig over my head, its length cascading down to my hips, ensuring my fiery red waves are completely concealed. I apply my makeup with precision, feeling like Leonardo da Vinci with a blank canvas, creating the priceless Mona Lisa, turning my full, well-defined lips into a perfect cupid's bow. In moments, my heart-shaped face transforms into an oval, and my once-wavy nose, with its small bump and freckles, is reshaped into a smooth, rosy, turned-up nose—all thanks to contouring.

Just a few days ago, I launched my own cosmetics line that offers a full range of hygiene, beauty, and skincare products, all made from plant-based ingredients, with the goal of concealment. I aspire to be as helpful to others as I am to myself. I want to provide the means for people to reinvent their appearance and feel empowered regardless of their situation, just as I do.

"Look who's back?" I smirk, misting my face with setting spray after perfecting my look. I make my way to the clothing section of my walk-in wardrobe, methodically evaluating my collection of black outfits. I decide on a sleek black dress paired with a long trench coat to ensure my hourglass figure doesn't give away too much, completing the look with black boots. I stride over to the full-length mirror to assess my appearance, adjusting my veneers to ensure my smile looks perfectly aligned and obscuring the prominent front teeth and their surrounding asymmetry that is so Maude-coded. It's crucial to keep this private side separate from my public persona as George—people are observing, and one wrong move could expose me.

"Oh, so I'm driving for George?" Vermont leans on his Ferrari 250 GTO, waiting for me in the driveway.

I roll my eyes. "The one and only." I hop into the passenger seat as he opens the door for me.

"Brilliant!"

I chuckle. "What's so wrong with George?"

He meets my gaze. "I don't know. Scary?"

"How can she be so scary?" I glance at my reflection in the rear-view mirror where a rosary is hanging behind. "She's just fine—beautiful."

"Seriously? You look so lovely, and by that I mean you're, like, so kind. Too good to be true?" He shrugs, and I rather like that.

"Are you saying that Maude is not lovely?"

"Yup, you got it right. She's more like an Artemis, definitely not a damsel-in-distress sort of vibe."

I'll take that as a compliment.

"I am such a brilliant artist, aren't I?"

I've achieved it! I sure know I have, but it feels different when it's seen through someone else's lens, not just my own. I've painted the same good daughter my father has always wanted. Too bad I can only paint her on the outside.

"There's no doubt about that, but I prefer the carefree, mean, and dagger-eyed sweetheart Maude," he remarks.

"Does the wig look that bad?"