Sydney Sweeney bid farewell to Euphoria, and it felt very much like a debutante weeping over spilt champagne at her own coming-out party–an orchestrated show of sorrow that is almost higher kitsch. For the 28-year old, the show which she says “took over her 20s” has entered its third season and she remains trapped in role of a woman who is devastated because her coming-of-age story is over. Like a little kitten chasing a laser pointer, it’s darling, but the credits have rolled.

At Variety’s Power of Women event, wrapped in a Christian Cowan gown that gaped open like a surgical wound, she confessed she was ‘terrified’ about the emotional goodbye. The confession hung in the air, heavy with the perfume of practiced vulnerability. Nothing says gravitas like a public admission that you have no control over your own emotions, especially when you’re dressed to kill and your rent for the month is probably sewn into the hem of your dress. She did unabashed glamour while managing a very scripted existential crisis.

Real comedy began when she addressed the internet’s favorite parlor game: whether her face is the product of divine intervention or a surgeon’s scalpel. Imagine her scrolling through conspiracy theories that put her 12 year old face against her current one as evidence at the trial of some forensic exhibit. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of aging in Hollywood–a crime punishable by a thousand thinkpieces. She chuckled it off with the icy confidence of a woman who knows a Twitter mob is far less terrifying than a hypodermic needle in the face. It was a laugh that sounded like breaking glass.

Sweeney also found her feet when they talked at the dinner about becoming a sex symbol and the inevitable, puritanical handwringing that comes with nudity. There was nothing about owning this contradiction in an industry who trade the female form like a car at the scrap heap and then judge it for being whole; she just owned it. And that Cheshire Cat expression was in fact a nod of sly recognition— she’s not only a part of the joke, she writes punch lines. She’s learnt the rules and now plays the game on her own terms.

The change is as startling as a desert highway at midnight. From a 16-year-old girl who was told to “fix” a face that was already fine, to a woman who can laugh her own show off thrillers. This is not simply personal growth; it is the very weaponized, cold-served confidence she has on costs more than any monthly salary pair of sneakers. Her skin has become both armor and her smile a blade, and God help anyone who crosses her path.