"Ms. Navarro," the lead stylist whispered, her voice trembling so violently the makeup brushes in her clear plastic apron rattled. "I... I don't understand."
"What part of my instruction is unclear, Vera?" Camille asked.
She did not turn around. She remained at the foot of the bed, her hands resting casually in the pockets of her tailored black trousers.
"The... the bride, Ma'am," Vera stammered, taking a hesitant step backward. "She is... she is tied up."
"She is secured," Camille corrected smoothly. "A necessary precaution for a highly valuable asset. Are you a stylist, Vera, or are you a moral philosopher?"
"I am a stylist, Ma'am. But she is bleeding."
