Camila has spent her entire life making people disappear. Literally. As one of the world's most skilled makeup artists and identity specialists, she creates illusions that can't be questioned. But when a mysterious billionaire named Scott Alves hires her to build a new face, a new identity, a new life, she realizes she's about to help the man she's falling for vanish completely.
The message had three rules: Arrive alone. No devices. Don't tell anyone.
I almost deleted it. But three hundred thousand dollars was enough to change everything.
The building rose twenty stories without a single sign. Glass and steel. The guard at the revolving door glanced at my black card and stepped aside. The elevator moved upward in perfect silence. When it stopped, I stepped into a hallway of polished concrete and charcoal walls. At the end, a single door waited slightly ajar.
"Enter," a voice said.
The room was empty except for a table, a chair, and a folder. White walls. Harsh lighting. I sat and waited, my pulse steady despite the strangeness of it all.
A man stepped into view. Dark suit. Military posture. His face was hidden behind a smooth prosthetic mask blank, neutral, completely expressionless. But his eyes were alive. Sharp. Dangerous.
"You are Camila Reyes," he said.
"I am."
"Open the folder."
Inside was a contract. Dense legal language. One sentence stopped me, By signing this agreement, you consent to maintain complete and absolute confidentiality regarding the identity of Scott Alves. Any breach may result in legal action, financial penalties, or permanent consequences of an undefined nature.
I looked up. "Why me?"
"Your work is precise. You create appearances that cannot be questioned. You're unpredictable. Most people in your field follow patterns. You don't."
I picked up the pen and signed my name.
"Good," the man said. He removed the prosthetic mask.
Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. Three scars. One ran from his temple to his jaw. Another near his cheekbone. A third above his left eyebrow. They were old. Healed. But they told a story I wasn't supposed to ask about.
This was Scott Alves.
"I need accuracy," he said, his voice deeper now. "And someone who won't ask the wrong questions."
He handed me a folder. "You're going to build me a new face. A new identity and someone completely forgettable."
I opened it and scanned the pages. Technical specifications. Facial measurements. But I kept looking at him. He was studying me like he was trying to memorize my face before forgetting it forever.
"When do I start?" I asked.
"Tomorrow. 8 AM. He paused, and Camila? Thank you for taking this job. I wasn't sure you would."
There was something vulnerable in that statement. Something that didn't match the dangerous man standing in front of me. I understood then that he wasn't just hiring me for my skills. He was hiring me because he needed someone to see him before he disappeared.
"I'll be ready," I said.
That night I couldn't sleep. I kept replaying his words. The way his eyes had changed when he removed the mask. The way he'd looked at me like I was the only real thing in that white room. I told myself it was just a job. Three hundred thousand dollars for creating a new identity. That was all.
But I already knew I was lying to myself.
I pulled up my portfolio on my laptop and started reviewing past work. Faces I'd created. Identities I'd built for people I'd never met and would never see again. Each one was technically perfect. Each one was emotionally empty. That's what I was good at creating illusions without investing in them.
Scott Alves was different.
I didn't know much about him. The internet had almost nothing. A few business articles mentioning his name in connection with some venture capital firm. Photos from charity galas where he stood at the edges, always in shadow. Always careful to remain out of focus. It was like he'd spent his entire life preparing to disappear.
And now he was paying me three hundred thousand dollars to help him finish what he'd started.
My phone beeped around 2 AM. An encrypted message from an unknown number that read, while coming tomorrow, bring black clothing. Nothing with logos or distinctive markings. The workspace requires discretion.
I stared at that message for a long time. This wasn't a normal job. Normal clients didn't send encrypted messages in the middle of the night. Normal clients didn't hire you in anonymous buildings with contracts about undefined consequences.
I should have walked away or rather have called it off. But I kept thinking about the scars on his face. About the way his voice had changed when he removed the mask. About the vulnerability I'd seen in his eyes before he rebuilt the walls.
I got out of bed and packed a bag. Black clothes. My best tools. Everything I'd need to transform a man's face into someone else's entirely.
As I zipped the bag shut, I realized I wasn't just packing for a job. I was packing for something that was going to change my life. I could feel it. The kind of certainty that comes before everything shifts. The calm before something beautiful or terrible or both.
I lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for morning to come, thinking about a man with scars who had looked at me like I was the only person in the world who could save him.
