Even a brief glimpse of her naked form—flat, droopy breasts, vast swaths of winkles, the snow-white thatch of pubic hair—nauseated her. Sometimes her disgust was so intense that she would get dressed while standing in a dark closet, but she didn’t have that luxury then.

The youthful version of her body had been a stunner, capable of enchanting any man, anywhere—and more than a few women, too. A twinge of nostalgia tugged at her.

Sighing, she slipped on a set of fresh undergarments. To finish, a solid purple kimono dress and matching slippers struck the tone that fit her mood.

Next, she pulled off her wig.

She slowly ran her fingers across her scalp. She was almost entirely bald—only a few strands of brittle hair bent underneath her touch. Her lips curled with distaste. She missed having a head full of dark, luxuriant hair.

From a velvet lined box she had placed on the dresser, she extracted another wig.

She had enough wigs to wear a different hairstyle every day for a whole month. If a woman must wear one, she ought to wear them with panache.

Working solely by touch, she fitted the fresh hairpiece on her head, pulled it down snug.

She removed the full set of false teeth she’d been wearing all day and dropped them in a jar full of a clear, sanitizing liquid. Her gums ached. Using a small applicator, she dabbed a homemade ointment along the ridges of her sore gums.

While the ointment settled in and worked its magic, she opened her makeup kit. The kit included a miniscule moon-shaped mirror, and everything else a woman needed: eyeshadow, blushes, powder, lipsticks, and more.

Using a cotton ball dipped in cleanser, she wiped the current layer of makeup off her skin. It required several cotton balls to complete the task. A quick check of her reflection in the kit’s mirror—barely a second, which was all she could tolerate—confirmed she had cleansed away the prior face.

Goodness, I look my age, she thought. What would my child think if she saw me in such condition?

Monica would never get that opportunity, of course. No one, not even her closest lovers—of which she’d had several—had seen her without makeup in many, many years.

Such was the price a woman paid for beauty.

8

As she was heading toward the walk-in closet in the master bedroom, Monica happened to glance outside the balcony window. Troy was still in the backyard with Duchess. He leaned against the railing of the large wooden deck, his cellphone pressed to his ear. He was making angry gestures, face twisted with tension.

Monica paused. What’s going on?

A pair of French doors served as the entrance to the wide, wrought-iron balcony. She pulled them open and poked her head outside.

“Troy? Is everything okay?”

Troy’s gaze snapped upward as if his head bounced on a spring. His eyes simmered.