“How much does something like this cost?” Henry asks.

“I need it,” I say. “You don’t understand.” The property I borrowed against to be here, the debt I’ve taken on, the embarrassment of my vanity, the life I’m willing to risk. He can’t understand it, and his refusal to even try, or to believe me when I tell him what I need, begins to give way to anger.

“You’re a man,” I say, “you can’t understand. You all say you want natural, but what does that mean? It means the illusion of natural.”

“Calm down, Lone Star,” Henry says, but I’m off my stool, pulse racing, blood pushing me to act. My eyes dart to the cutlery, the knife’s point. They dart to the door.

“You know what, fuck this,” I say.

“Sit down,” he says and kills his wine.

There’s no safe way to reject a man. So I make a show of it, storm off. Henry talks in my wake, calls out a room number. But I don’t look back.

THE LOBBY IS extra empty, the front desk unmanned. The elevator’s there and waiting. I rush inside, hit the number for my floor. The doors don’t shut and I tighten my robe, punch the close button. I’m sure Henry’s arm is imminent, reaching out to wedge his body in. What am I capable of if he does? I ball my hands into fists. My nails dig into my palms, sharp enough to tear the skin. I punch the button again. The box gives a lurch, but the doors don’t close. Behind my eyes I flash to a vision of Dr. Perrault, scalpel in hand, cutting, peeling, suturing the mold of my unaugmented face—an appropriate face for a woman my age—to the ravaged one I’ve made out of time and toxins and other, careless surgeries, the assurances of other careless men. So many misplaced wants, forgotten mistakes. Slowly, the doors ding shut and my whole body gives. The box rises. I open my Instagram, my messages. It’s not too late to cancel Aesthetica™, lose the money I put down, keep the face I’ve made. It’s not too late to speak.

The doors open next on my dark floor. Shaking with adrenaline, or hunger, I trip down the purple length of carpet, eyes on every door, every possible danger. Outside one, I see a disheveled room service tray—metal lid, empty cup. And beneath a tossed-off napkin, a serrated steak knife. I speed toward the blade, squat to grab it. While I’m down there, I lift the lid off the plate, see the sad aftermath of a child’s chicken finger dinner—two half-chewed tenders, a smattering of soggy fries. I hesitate, scan up and down the hall. Then, I pick up the tray and carry it with me toward the Princess Suite.

10.