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بِسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The antique clock mounted on the wall filled the room with a steady rhythm, each passing second echoing through the silence. Seated before the vanity was a young woman, poised with effortless grace. She was so perfectly still that the room appeared to breathe around her. Her spine was straight, her henna-stained hands folded neatly on her lap. Shoulders squared, chin lifted high, every inch of her composed as though she had been sculpted into place. Facing her was her reflection in a 120-inch gold-framed mirror. Kohl-darkened almond eyes stared into the mirror, unblinking, almost challenging their own reflection. Her plump lips were set in a firm line that rarely softened. Outlined and stained a rich, dark red, they carried the unsettling illusion of freshly spilled blood. Thick coils of Afro hair framed her face, but ...
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