She learned which smiles mattered early.
The real ones were crooked.
Delayed.
Hard to hold.
These weren't.
At the charity gala, Aria moved through the room like a reflection—present, polished, untouchable. Every face she met offered the same practiced curve of lips.
Approval without warmth.
Interest without curiosity.
A man from a major studio clasped her hands. "We're so happy you're back," he said, eyes scanning past her shoulder.
"Are you," Aria replied, gently.
He laughed, already turning away.
---
Cameras loved her tonight.
Flash after flash caught the same expression—soft eyes, slight smile, posture open. Perfect for headlines. Perfect for misreading.
Noah watched from the edge of the room.
"That smile," he said later. "It's not for them, is it?"
"It's a mask," Aria said. "And it's empty on purpose."
---
A reporter tried to corner her near the exits.
"You look happy," the reporter said. "Does it feel good to be welcomed back?"
Aria smiled again.
"Feeling good isn't the same as being safe," she said.
The quote was never printed.
---
In a quiet corridor, she passed two executives speaking in low tones.
"She's playing along," one said.
"For now," the other replied.
Aria didn't slow.
---
That night, photos flooded the feeds.
Radiant.
Gracious.
At Ease.
The system logged it as compliance.
They mistook absence for surrender.
---
Back home, Aria washed her face, watching the smile disappear in the mirror like it had never existed.
No lines left behind.
No residue.
Noah leaned against the doorframe. "They think you're easing in."
She dried her hands. "Let them."
She looked up, eyes clear.
"A smile that means nothing," she said, "is very useful."
Outside, the cameras waited for the next one.
They wouldn't know the difference.