Iyana sat stiffly on the edge of her seat, utterly bewildered as yet another pair of hands attacked her hair with what felt like the twelfth comb of the morning. The maids had been unusually persistent today—fluffing, pinning, tugging—each of them determined to sculpt her into something divine. One even murmured something about "the perfect silhouette for soft lighting," which, frankly, sounded more like preparation for a portrait session than lunch.
"Is this some kind of beauty pageant I missed the memo for?" she muttered under her breath as another pin slid into place.
