South Central, Los Angeles – 2016
The gunshot rang out like a thunderclap at 9:07 p.m.
Jade Carter was sixteen, clutching a box of cornrows she'd spent hours braiding for her mother's birthday. They were walking home from Mr. Lee's bodega, the sidewalk sticky with spilled soda and the distant scent of frying chicken. Her mother, Rose, hummed Summertime under her breath, her arm linked with Jade's, the gold bracelet on her wrist jangling with each step.
"One day, baby," Rose said, smiling at a group of kids playing double Dutch, "you're gonna design dresses so beautiful, they'll put stars to shame."
Jade never heard the rest.
The bullet came from nowhere—at least, that's what she'd tell the cops later. One moment they were laughing about the too-sweet mango smoothie Rose had bought, the next her mother was falling, blood blooming on her white blouse like a twisted rose. Jade dropped the braids, scrambling to catch her, but Rose was already gone, her last breath a whisper: "Stay golden."
The scar came later.
The surgeons said it was a miracle she survived—the bullet had grazed her jaw, missing her carotid by millimeters. But no one called it a miracle when she returned to school, her face wrapped in bandages, kids whispering "Freak" behind her back. By the time the bandages came off, Jade had learned to hunch her shoulders, to wear baggy hoodies that swallowed her frame, to let her curls grow wild and unkempt as a shield.
Present Day – 2023
Jade stared at the mirror in Dr. Malik Bryant's clinic, tracing the jagged ridge of scar tissue from her ear to her chin. Seven years later, it still throbbed when it rained, a reminder that beauty was fragile—something that could be stolen in an instant, like her mother's life.
"Jade." Malik's voice was gentle, but firm. He leaned against the exam table, his scrubs bearing the faint stain of iodophor . "You don't have to do this."
She met his gaze in the reflection. Malik had been her rock since the shooting—he'd held her hand through every nightmare, helped her bury her mother, even taught her how to change a tire when her dad got too drunk to care. But now, his brown eyes held a flicker of doubt.
"I have to," she said, pressing a hand to the scar. "Not for them. For me."
The surgery took eight hours.
Malik paid for it out of his residency bonus, despite her protests. "It's an investment," he'd said, avoiding her gaze. "In you." But Jade knew the truth—he saw the scar as a reminder of the night they'd both lost someone, a wound he couldn't stitch up.
When the bandages came off, Jade didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. The scar had been transformed into a thin, silvery line, barely visible against her dark skin. Her face, once round and hidden, now had sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut through prejudice. And her body—through a combination of surgery and relentless physical therapy—had shed the weight she'd carried like armor, leaving behind a silhouette that curved with purpose, not apology.
"You look like yourself," Malik said, but his tone was hollow, like he was mourning the girl she'd been.
Jade turned to him, touching her new cheekbone. "No," she said. "I look like the version of myself they'll finally listen to."
The Lie began with an email from Liam Hayes.
Liam, Malik's Harvard-educated cousin and COO of Voss Fashion Group, had messaged her late one night: "I saw your sketches. You're too talented to be stitching hems in a discount store. Let me help you."
Now, sitting in his sleek downtown office, Jade studied the contract in front of her. J. Carter, Senior Stylist. No mention of "Black," "scar," or "South Central." Just a name, a title, and a chance.
"Are you sure about this?" Liam asked, adjusting his silver cufflinks—the only hint of his Ivy League polish. His voice was careful, measured, like he'd rehearsed this conversation a hundred times. "'J. Carter' is a blank slate. They'll see the name, the hair, and assume you're mixed-race. It's not ideal, but… it's a foot in the door."
Jade thought of the HR manager at her last job, the way she'd said, "We love your designs, but do you have anything… less urban?" She thought of the kids in South Central, the ones who'd stopped dreaming because the world told them they didn't belong.
"I'm sure," she said, signing the contract with a flourish. "But when I make it, Liam—I'm making it as me. Scars and all."
Liam smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Then let's make sure they're ready for you."
As she left the office, Jade passed a billboard for Voss Group's latest campaign: a skinny white model in a sequined gown, captioned "Perfection is pain." She touched her scar, now hidden beneath a layer of concealer, and smiled.
Perfection is a lie, she thought. But pain? That's how diamonds are made.
Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed. Somewhere, a rough stone waited to be cut.
And somewhere, a man in a tailored suit stared at a trembling hand in his penthouse mirror, unaware that his perfect world was about to collide with a girl who'd learned to turn scars into stars.