Elona’s POV
A faint trace of lavender perfume someone had overused filled the studio. My heels dangled from my fingers, the straps brushing against my thigh. I took a deep breath before sitting on the edge of the bench to slip them on. Everything felt the same, cold, pristine, ruthless, but inside me, something had shifted. I was even more determined to do this, no matter what.
The strap of my heel snagged, and I gritted my teeth as I pulled it tighter. “You really think you deserve to be back here?” a sharp voice said behind me.
I glanced up and met the glare of Clarissa, one of the veterans. Her platinum ponytail bounced as she folded her arms, her black leggings hugging her frame like armor. Behind her stood two others, all with the same narrowed eyes and glossy lips.
“You were barely standing last week,” she scoffed, stepping closer. “Some of us have been here busting our asses for months. But you… what? Collapse and suddenly you’re a showstopper?”
I met her eyes and stood, my heels clicking on the floor. My body wobbled slightly, but I straightened. “I didn’t ask to be a showstopper. That’s Madame Delance’s call.”
“You should’ve stayed in the hospital,” she said bitterly. “You don’t belong here.”
“I belong here just as much as you,” I said, my voice calm but firm. “And just because I take care of my health doesn’t mean I’m weak. Passion doesn’t require martyrdom.”
Clarissa’s nostrils flared. “You don’t know the first thing about sacrifice.”
I wasn’t going to let her ruin my day. I pushed my body past its limits and that was a sacrifice on its own. But instead, I said, “No, Clarissa. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
She scoffed and turned sharply, her heels biting into the floor as she stormed off with her posse. My stomach churned, and for a second I felt the heat behind my eyes. But I wouldn’t let her get to me. Not today.
“Elona,” a soft voice said beside me. I turned to see Jasmine, one of the newer girls, with dark curls tucked beneath a velvet headband. She smiled timidly. “I’m glad you’re back.”
I blinked. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“They are just jealous,” she said, handing me a hair tie. “Madame Delance was showing us some of the designs for the upcoming show. She placed yours front and center.”
“She did?” I raised an eyebrow, that took me by surprise.
Jasmine nodded. “Yeah. The whole gold-sequined gown with the plunging neckline? It has your name written all over it. She literally said, ‘This one is Elona’s.’” My heart fluttered. I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or laugh. “But,” Jasmine continued, “we have photoshoots coming up before the show. Like, intense ones. Individual and group shots. She wants to market us all like runway goddesses. And you...” she smiled, “you’re going to be fabulous.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. And…” she hesitated. “Tristan. When he stormed in? He looked like a literal movie hero. Like, I thought Madame Delance was going to faint or scream. But instead, she actually listened to him. I’ve never seen her back down like that. I mean...after he left, she toned down how she had been treating us. She doesn’t even use that pointer stick to slap us across our legs anymore.”
I smiled faintly, picturing him, furious, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “He can be… intense.”
“Well, we all want a Tristan right about now,” she giggled.
Before I could reply, Madame Delance entered. “Places!” her voice echoed across the studio like a drumbeat. She walked to the front of the studio, her ever-present stick tapping against the floor, her tall frame clad in a tailored grey coat with stilettos sharper than her attitude. “On your marks. No excuses. You’re preparing for the biggest televised fashion show in the world.”
We scrambled into our places, heels clacking, hair bouncing, and backs straightening. I took my place on the far-right platform, the spot meant for the closing walk, the showstopper. My breath caught in my throat.
“You will practice the routine as if you are already on stage,” Madame Delance said, walking the line. “Choreography, poses, group movement, attitude. Cameras will be watching. Millions of eyes. You fail here, you will fail there. And no one will remember your name.”
Her eyes fell on me for a moment, they were unreadable, but she didn’t stop or correct me. That meant something. The music began, something orchestral but modern, haunting and seductive. I stepped forward with my arms loose at my sides, hips swaying in a rhythm carved into muscle memory. My body responded, but my mind flickered, images of Tristan, and of his voice trembling when he said he couldn’t lose me. Of the way he looked at me as if I were everything, even when I felt like nothing.
The studio faded, and the spotlight in my imagination swallowed me whole. I wasn’t just walking on the ground or on a beam anymore. I was walking through fire, grief, jealousy, rage, and survival. We moved in coordinated angles, a blend of practiced grace and learned tension. Clarissa stumbled once and cursed under her breath. Jasmine winked at me as we passed in a swirl of fabric.
At the end of the routine, we lined up, facing an invisible audience. I stood in the center now, Madame Delance had changed the choreography. “I expect better,” she called out. “But this...” her eyes met mine, “This has potential.” It wasn’t praise, not really. But it was something.
We broke for water, and Jasmine leaned in. “You killed it. Honestly, you looked like a queen.”
I smiled through the sweat clinging to my skin. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
She bumped my shoulder lightly. “Don’t let them get to you. Clarissa’s just loud. You’re stronger,” she said before she left.
I looked out across the polished floor, the sun catching the smudges on the studio mirrors, and I allowed myself a small breath of peace. It was the end of the day and I put on my sneakers and took my gym bag and walked out the studio.
The soft thud of my sneakers echoed in the hallway leading towards the receptionist’s area, but passing more studios. I turned the corner and paused when I heard voices, not loud enough to be shouting, but sharp and cliquey in tone.
I recognized them. Lacey, Marcelle, and Jolene. All three huddled in the alcove outside the locker room like vultures with lip gloss. I took a step back and leaned against the wall, pressing my back to the cool plaster as their voices filtered around the edge. “She looked like she saw a ghost when he showed up. Grace literally held onto her files for dear life,” Lacey whispered, her voice tinged with amusement.
“Ugh, well, wouldn’t you?” Marcelle scoffed. “Tristan Crane? Up close? Angry? That man could melt marble if he glared hard enough.”
“Delance was not happy,” Jolene chimed in. “She told Grace to keep it together and not say a word. She said this kind of attention isn’t the ‘right kind.’”
“Grace cried in her office,” Lacey added, as if delighted. “Swore she didn’t know Elona was pregnant. Like that makes it better?”
My breath caught.
They knew.
The girls might not know everything, but word spread fast here by the looks of it. Like perfume and rumors, it lingered in the air long after it was spoken. Was this what Madame Delance was warning me about?
“Delance said they will handle it internally,” Marcelle murmured. “That it’s all about ‘narrative control.’ She even told the person who took the picture that he was being watched.”
What picture?
“Classic Delance,” Jolene replied. “She’s not going to let this affect VFS. Not with the showcase coming. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to be Grace right now.”
There was a pause.
“They have the same eyes,” Jolene offered. “Dead inside.”
They laughed. A high-pitched, hollow sound that made my skin crawl. My fists clenched at my sides. Suddenly, I felt less like an overhearing eavesdropper and more like an open wound. They were talking about me, about my pain, like it was material for their next gossip session. I straightened slowly, making sure my steps were quiet as I backed away from the corner. The laughter faded behind me as I walked, stomach in knots.
Grace had cried? Madame Delance was angry? But none of it was about remorse. None of it was about me, or the baby, or how any of this had destroyed something sacred inside of me. It was about image, control, and silence. Madame Delance’s empire couldn’t afford scandal, and I was just a crack in the marble she was desperate to polish over.
I didn’t know what the next few days would hold, if Tristan would face backlash for confronting Grace, if Madame Delance would retaliate behind closed doors.