The driver is a tall, thin man I’ve seen around the estate, but never spoken to. Julian told me this morning that his name is Thomas. Thomas doesn’t introduce himself or say much this time either, all his attention focused on the road. As we leave the driveway, I see two black SUVs pull out behind us and follow us at some distance. It makes me feel like I’m the First Lady—or maybe a mafia princess.

The latter is probably a better comparison.

It takes less than a half hour to get to the hair salon. It’s not an upscale place, but it has a good reputation in the area, and most importantly, Julian deemed its location easy to secure. I hadn’t expected to get an appointment so easily, but they’d had a cancellation this morning and were thus able to fit me in at eleven.

“Just a little trim, please,” I request after a tattooed, purple-haired lady shampoos my hair and leads me to one of the cutting stations. “No more than a couple of inches.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Look at how thick it is. You should at least get some layers put in.”

I frown, studying my reflection in the mirror. “Will it still be long?”

“Of course. You won’t lose any of the length—it’ll just be shaped nicely. The shortest layers, those around your face, will be well below your shoulders.”

“In that case, go for it.” I try to sound decisive, even though I feel nothing of the kind. It’s hard to disobey Julian, even in this small thing, and that makes me determined to do so. “Let’s layer up this mess.”

As the hairstylist bustles around me, tugging and snipping at my hair, I watch the other people in the salon. After weeks of isolation on the estate, it feels odd to be among so many strangers. Nobody is paying me much attention, but I still feel uncomfortably exposed, as though everyone is staring at me. I’m also somewhat anxious. I know nobody here means me any harm, so the feeling is illogical, but some of Julian’s paranoia is rubbing off on me.

Still, being here on my own is exciting. I know Julian’s men are outside, so I don’t truly have any freedom, but it feels like I do.

It feels like I’m a regular girl, out for a day of grooming and hanging out with her friends.

“All done,” the stylist announces after a few minutes. “Now we just blow-dry, and you’ll be all set.”

I nod, trying to avoid looking at the long locks scattered all over the floor. It seems like a lot of hair, though the wet strands I see in the mirror don’t appear particularly short.

“So, what do you think?” she asks after my hair is dry. She hands me a mirror. “How do you like it?”

I turn in the swiveling chair, studying my new hairstyle from all angles. It looks like a shampoo ad—long, dark, and sleek, with the shorter layers around my face adding some flattering volume.