Celia stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her expression as lifeless as the doll-like persona she had perfected for years. The woman staring back at her bore no resemblance to the girl she once was. Her raven-black hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, framing a face that many called ethereal, yet she saw only a hollow shell. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her blue eyes held a perpetual emptiness.
"I hate this life," she thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the chipped wooden vanity. Every night, she danced for the lecherous eyes of men who saw her not as a person but as an object, a commodity to be purchased and consumed. No matter how much they paid, they never truly owned her, but they took pieces of her nonetheless. "I am not a person. I am a product."
