Elona’s POV
The hallway leading to Madame Delance’s office was eerily silent, a sharp contrast to the buzz of whispers and heels clicking behind me in the main studio. I balled my hands into fists as my footsteps echoed against the sleek marble tiles. The cropped top I wore suddenly felt too tight over my chest. My body was aching from the drills, and the memory of that damned beam still lingered, its narrow line carved into my calves and my confidence alike.
I stood in front of Madame Delance’s door with her name on it. I knocked twice, sharp but hesitant. “Come in,” came the unmistakable voice. It was cool and commanding. Perfectly measured.
Pushing the door open, I stepped inside the room that reeked of old money and brutal honesty. Her office wasn’t what I expected. It was sleek and minimal, yet unmistakably feminine. A single orchid bloomed in a white pot on her desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the late-afternoon light spill in like honey, catching on the crystal decanter in the corner. A collection of black and white photographs lined the wall, models from decades past, each one caught mid-stride, mid-flick of hair, mid-seduction of the camera. And then there was Madame Delance herself.
She sat behind a matte black desk, her posture perfect, her long legs crossed with an elegance that looked like it had been trained into her bones. Her shoulder-length brunette hair was loose, soft waves curving around her sculpted face. Her red lips were the only splash of color against her monochrome outfit, which was a black top tucked neatly into equally black leggings, and, of course, her signature stilettos. She looked like she had walked straight off a runway. No… she looked like she owned the runway.
“Miss Everett,” she said, her eyes lifting from a thin file she had been reading. My file. “Sit,” she instructed.
I obeyed, perching on the edge of the leather chair across from her. My back was sore, my thighs still trembling slightly from the relentless balance drills. I rest my hands on my lap, trying not to fidget.
“I will be direct,” she said, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. “You are a beautiful young woman. You know that,” it wasn’t a compliment, it was a fact. A clinical observation, like a doctor noting a symptom.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice was barely beyond a whisper.
“But beauty is not enough here. Not at VFS. Not on international runways. Not in front of the world’s most ruthless photographers. Do you understand?”
I nodded. My palms began to sweat. “I’ve had a look at your portfolio. Your body is-” she paused, eyeing me with that hawk-like scrutiny again, “Naturally proportioned, by industry standards. Gorgeous, yes. But too soft in some places.”
I swallowed. “I’ve been eating better-”
“You will follow a new diet now,” she cut in. She slid a printed meal plan across the table. It was color-coded, precise, and terrifying.
Breakfast: 1 egg white, steamed spinach, 1 cup black coffee.
Lunch: Grilled chicken (80g), kale salad, lemon water.
Dinner: Steamed fish, broccoli, no carbs after 5PM.
Snacks: Almonds (10 only), green juice, cucumber slices.
No sugar. No dairy. No gluten. No fruit.
No joy.
“This will trim you. Sharpen your silhouette. You have the potential to be unforgettable, Miss Everett, but only if you give everything. This world, this industry, does not reward softness.”
My chest tightened. “I understand,” I said, forcing my voice to be steady.
She leaned back in her chair, eyeing me again, this time a little less like I was a project, and more like... a reflection. “I wasn’t always Madame Delance,” she said, surprising me. Her tone was quieter now, more intimate. “I was just Lisette. A girl from New York with a dream and a waistline one inch too wide.”
I blinked, “I spent years trying to carve myself into the shape the industry demanded. It wasn’t easy. My bones hurt from hunger, my feet bled in six-inch heels, and I cried most nights into a pillow no one saw,” she gave a sharp, almost bitter laugh. “But I made it and I will make sure you do too.”
“Why me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Her lips twitched, not quite smiling. “Because you remind me of her,” she said. “Of the girl I used to be. And because, despite your softness, I see steel underneath. I saw it in how you didn’t cry when I corrected you. How you got back on that beam again and again. That is rare.” I blinked back sudden emotion. I hadn’t expected this. Not the strictness, nor the softness underneath it. Then her expression turned serious again. “But I need to ask you something personal.”
I tensed. “Okay.”
She tapped the file again. “Endometriosis,” my stomach dropped. “How bad is it?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Some days are worse than others. It’s manageable.” with my birth control pills.
Her gaze bored into me, reading more than I said aloud. “Pain flares during your cycle?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Fatigue?”
“Sometimes,” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
She nodded slowly. “I can’t have models collapsing mid-walk. Or cancelling last-minute. Do you understand?”
I felt my throat tighten. “Yes.”
“I should say no to you. I should dismiss you now. The other girls would kill for your spot. But...” she sighed, and this time it was heavier. “I will make an exception and, of course, as per the recommendation from Austin Luca.”
Relief flooded my chest. “I won’t let you down,” I said.
“You will, at some point,” she said matter-of-factly. “Everyone does. But I will give you the chance to prove me right about you.”
There was silence for a moment, thick with unspoken things. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She stood up from her leather chair, her heels clicking softly against the polished floors as she moved toward the window. The sunlight framed her like a shadowed goddess.
“This place will try to break you,” she said without turning around. “The cameras, the men, the mirrors, the hunger. But if you survive it... if you keep your head high and your heels higher, then you will become something no one can ignore.” She turned back to me. “Do you want that?”
I stood up slowly. “Yes.”
“Then go. Rest. Eat your new dinner. And tomorrow... be ready.” I nodded and turned to leave, my heart was thudding.“Miss Everett,” she called just before I reached the door.
I turned around to face her, “Yes?”
“You were born for more than beautiful pictures. But it starts there. Don’t waste it.”
I nodded, and then I stepped out into the hallway, the meal plan in my hand like a ticket to somewhere I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, but knew I needed to. I wasn’t sure who I would be at the end of all this, but I was beginning to understand one thing, Madame Delance wasn’t the enemy. She was the storm before I could become my own lightning.