Elona’s POV
I twisted my fingers nervously as Tristan pulled up to the curb outside the VFS building. Morning sunlight filtered through the tinted windows of his car, casting golden hues across his sharp jawline. He turned to me with a soft smile as he reached out to me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’ll be practicing at the auditorium today for the upcoming show. It’s approaching fast,” he said, his voice calm as he pulled his hand away from me. I could feel the tension underneath his calm, the weight of expectation pressing against him.
“You will do great,” I said with all the faith I had in him, and I meant it. He was born for stages and crowds, even if he would never admit it. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He smiled again, slower this time, more personal. Then he leaned forward and kissed me, a soft, unspoken promise passed through the press of our lips. I lingered for a moment, not wanting to leave the safety of his presence, but I had to. I pulled back, “I will see you later. I love you.”
“I will be right here waiting for you. I love you, too.” He smiled. I stepped out of the car with my gym bag in hand and watched the car pull away. I dragged my feet all the way to the building.
As soon as the doors of VFS shut behind me, the air shifted. It was colder here, not in temperature, but in energy. A silent chill that clawed at my skin. I passed the front desk, nodded once, and walked into the main studio where the girls were already gathered. Their eyes landed on me like darts. No one said anything at first, but I could feel the stares burrowing into my back. The silence was thicker than any insult. And then I was reminded.
They knew.
They knew I had been hospitalized. They knew about Tristan. They knew about the pregnancy.
The whispering began as I changed in the dressing room which was just next door to the main studio. The costumes laid out were revealing, tight leather shorts, fishnet bodysuits, skin-baring tops. All for the “Grit & Glamour” shoot Madame Delance had wanted us to do. One girl muttered something about how I shouldn’t be allowed to wear anything tight in “my condition.”
I ignored it, pulled the mesh sleeves over my arms, and walked to the set where we stood in group poses. The camera clicked, the lights flashed, and I forced my chin high. I pretended I wasn’t shaking inside. I posed like Madame Delance had taught us, letting my eyes do the speaking while my body obeyed commands it barely had energy to follow.
The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and nerves. It pulsed with the steady rhythm of music, something slow and deep that vibrated through the floor and into my bones. I stood under the glare of the lights, skin prickling with heat, as makeup artists darted in and out of the set like anxious birds. We had been at this for hours, but the real shoot, the one they would use for campaign covers and showbooks, was just beginning.
Madame Delance’s heels clicked against the floor as she passed behind the monitor, her eyes razor sharp beneath the perfectly painted lids. “Position them,” she called out coolly. “Confidence, not hesitation. We’re selling a dream.”
I stood beside three other models, each one breathtaking and lean. I was in the center. Of course, I was. Madame Delance had made it clear that I was the “soft one.” A challenge. A gamble. Her special project. And now, in front of flashing cameras and thirty watchful eyes, I was her proof.
The photographer, who was a lean man with sharp cheekbones and a silver ring looped through his lip, walked up, motioning us into formation. “Elona, turn your head a little. Right there. Yes,” he said, his voice like velvet. “Now bring the hip forward, more, more. Don’t be shy.”
My muscles burned as I held the pose. Left foot pointed, hip tilted, back slightly arched, lips parted like a secret. A thousand flashes exploded in my eyes. Behind me, Jade, the redhead with feline eyes, rested her hand on my shoulder. Her nails, polished like obsidian, dug in slightly.
“Intimate,” the photographer said. “More tension between you two. Elona, you’re the heartbeat. You’re the one they all want.” I swallowed the knot in my throat, I nodded, and leaned into the role. Into the fantasy. Into the edge that made VFS so desired and dangerous.
Jade’s fingers grazed my jaw lightly. Her mouth curved with the kind of smile that was meant to make people talk. My own eyes remained half-lidded, sultry. It was a game of dominance and submission. I wasn’t supposed to blink.
Another model, Liora, circled behind me, placing her chin just over my shoulder. Our bodies curved like smoke around each other. Madame Delance called it a “human sculpture of seduction.”
I called it exhausting.
Then came the solo shots.
“Start with Elona,” Madame Delance ordered, sipping from a white porcelain cup like a queen commanding her court. “I want fire. Raw. She’s not soft today, she’s a weapon.”
The other girls stepped back, whispering among themselves as I walked into the center of the set. “More like pregnant,” I heard one mutter. I let it slide to focus on my photoshoot.
A white background surrounded me like a void. A wind machine whirred to life. It tugged at my long waves of dark hair, lifting the strands around my face like something mythical.
“Look down... now up, slow. That’s it,” the photographer murmured. “More anger. Give me the fire you’ve been swallowing.”
I thought of the drills. The bruises. The hunger that gnawed in my belly because I skipped breakfast again. I thought of the current situation. My pain and my father. How I needed to stand out. How I had to. The rage came naturally.
I stepped onto the beam in my heels, Madame Delance insisted it would be good for “intensity.” The thin plank forced my balance, my calves tight, my arms relaxed at my sides. Every inch of me burned. My pose became sharper, like a dagger drawn in mid-fight.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Heels clicked. Posing turned primal. The top of my costume clung to my chest with sweat. I could feel it soaking through at the back, but no one cared. Perfection was pain. We just have to embrace it. I turned my body slightly, baring one side of my waist, my spine like a line of poetry, my hands positioned like I was caught in mid-confession. I wasn’t just a model, I was a symbol of indulgence, obsession, and unattainable beauty.
“Fucking shit,” the photographer whispered, lowering his camera. “We’ve got the cover.”
There was silence. Then came Madame Delance’s voice.
“Reset.” Just like that, it was over. I was done with my photoshoot, and the other girls had to do theirs.
My legs trembled as I stepped down. Jade muttered something about me being the “favorite.” But I wasn’t listening. I was still in the white void of that shoot. Still pretending, still pushing. I smiled faintly, lips dry, throat raw, and thought, If this is what it takes… I will do it again tomorrow. Even if it breaks me.
After the individual shoots, Madame Delance clapped her hands sharply. “Tomorrow, we will be doing measurements. Eat light.”
***
Once I was back in my black VFS uniform, which were leggings clinging to every muscle, my fitted crop top, I pulled on my sneakers, slow and tired. My mind felt cotton-stuffed. Still, I moved like I always did. Like I had no choice.
I didn’t even hear Calla approach until the words slithered out of her mouth like poison as I stood up, with my gym bag in hand, ready to leave.
“A pregnant girl like you won’t last here.” The words sliced straight through my fog.
I turned, slowly. “I’m not pregnant.”
She stood a few feet away, her arms folded, weight tilted to one hip. Her sleek black bun was tight, just like her smirk. She looked calm, and confident, but there was something in her eyes. Something sharp.
“Are you sure?” Her voice oozed mock-sweetness. “You’ve been flaunting your softness, and then there’s that little scandal with Tristan. Everyone’s talking.”
My pulse thudded in my ears. My heart sank, then clenched into something hot and bitter. I didn’t speak. I didn’t trust myself to. I tried to walk past her. My head snapped back, my scalp screaming from the roots. Pain exploded. A cry left my throat. “Let go!” Her hand was tangled violently in my hair. She yanked hard.
I twisted my body, my gym bag now on the ground, teeth gritted, eyes stinging, and shoved her with all the adrenaline I had. My hands met her shoulder, and she staggered. “Don’t touch me!” I shouted, breathless and burning. But her face snapped into something feral. She lunged.
Her fist arched toward my cheek like a blade, but I recoiled...too slow. Knuckles collided with my skin. I stumbled back, tasting metal. My cheek lit with fire. Her nails caught the side of my neck as she swiped again. Screams and chaos.
Someone shouted, “Calla, stop!” Footsteps pounded.
Hands pulled at us. I was dragged backwards by my arms. Calla was yanked the other way, legs kicking as she twisted in fury. Her eyes burned wild and red. Another girl wrapped her arms around my middle from behind, anchoring me. “Elona, breathe, breathe!” I couldn’t.
I was shaking. My pulse thundered. My eyes were wide and glassy. My chest rose and fell, too fast. Too deep. My legs nearly gave out beneath me. Madame Delance’s voice cut through the storm like thunder.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Everyone froze.
The stick clacked against the floor as Madame Delance stormed forward, her heels echoing like authority itself. Her dark eyes swept the chaos, then landed on me, on Calla, on the red forming on my cheek and the tears threatening to fall. “Let her go,” she commanded.
The girl behind me loosened her grip. I stumbled forward, breath hitching, but I straightened my spine. Madame Delance’s gaze narrowed. “Calla. Office. Now.”
“But she-” Calla tried to object.
“Now.” Madame Delance’s voice cracked like a whip.
Calla stomped off, but not without one last glare over her shoulder. Her face was tight and pale. Something told me this wasn’t over.
The studio buzzed in low murmurs as the other girls cautiously backed away. I didn’t look at them. I couldn’t. Madame Delance approached me slowly. “Sit down,” she said gently.
“I’m sorry, I-I need to go.” My cheek stung. My head spun. I didn’t wait. I stormed out of the studio with my gym bag. Rage burned hotter than humiliation. The outside air hit me like a slap, too cold, too bright. My vision was blurred. Not from tears, but exhaustion and heartbreak. I didn’t see Tristan immediately, but I didn’t care. I walked fast, aimless steps down the sidewalk. I didn’t even know where I was going, I just knew I needed to go.
“Elona!” Tristan’s voice stopped me like a bullet. I felt his hand on my wrist a second later, his grip firm but careful. I turned slightly, keeping my face away. “It’s nothing.”
“Is it Delance?” he asked, his jaw tight. I shook my head.
His eyes narrowed. “Then what...” He saw it then. My cheek and the scratches on my neck. He reached up slowly, cupping my face with one hand. I flinched and backed away.
“It’s nothing, Tristan.”
“Elona...”
“I just need to walk,” I whispered, tears burning like acid behind my eyes.
“We’re out in public,” he said. “You know that’s the last thing you want. One headline, one picture...” His voice was thick with protectiveness. “Please, get in the car. I promise I won’t say anything else.” I nodded.
The drive was quiet. He didn’t push, but he was worried, and I could feel the tension coming from him, which was probably anger. I didn’t speak, I didn’t want him to get involved either. They are doing this to get rid of me as a showstopper and for me not to be there anymore. But I won’t give up that easily.