“To smile,” we say in unison, laughing as we step through the automatic doors and into the fresh smell of lavender and eucalyptus.

At the counter, an older woman with kind eyes and a bun a ballerina would be envious of, welcomes us with a smile.

“Monti and Jameson Filano.” My sister throws her arm around my shoulders.

“Of course.” The woman’s spine straightens, and she keeps her smile high and clear, I’ll give her that, but there’s a shift in the air, one I’m not sure Monti is aware of as she follows up with a blinding smile.

The thing about my sister, she has the ability to swallow a room without any effort. She is so beyond beautiful that it makes others uncomfortable, she’s that... perfect.

Her hair is a rich brown shade like mine, but fuller and shinier with a natural wave she doesn’t have to touch if she doesn’t wish to, though she never allows them to be seen. Her eyes, perfectly almond-shaped and the color of roasted honey, almost unrealistic in shade, are so mesmerizing, and framed with thick, curved lashes. Let’s not forget her full, mauve-colored lips with a perfect heart’s arch.

Don’t even get me started on her figure.

All in all, if there was any woman in the world who could step out of the shower and directly in front of a camera with zero prepping or retouches to follow, it’s Monti.

The sad part?

She’s the most self-conscious person I know.

She spends hours in the mirror documenting every flaw, literally writing them down in a journal she keeps tucked in her handbag, and even more at the gym. She counts every calorie, and while she doesn’t restrict herself from what she wants to indulge in, she does work off more than she consumes. Every single day.

But you would never guess any of that, and she makes sure of it.

It’s not mentally or physically healthy, but how many of us can say we are?

People are supposed to be flawed, but how do you learn to accept such a thing when your own mother has convinced you your only attribute to the world is beauty?

My sister is so much more than beauty.

So much more than me.

“Right this way.” The woman bows her head, and the doors to the left open.

We step into the hall, following it around the curved corner where another woman awaits us, fresh robes and booties in her hands.

Across from her station are dressing rooms with lockers, so we make quick work of changing and when we step out, she offers us a flute of champagne, but we both decline in favor of the coffees we brought in.