Elona’s POV
I thought I would feel like I belonged here. That was what I kept telling myself as I walked through the tall glass doors of the Velvet Fashion Show studios. The exterior was sleek and ultra-modern, with mirrored panels reflecting the city skyline, but the moment I stepped inside, the illusion shattered like glass.
The receptionist gave me a once-over with eyes that judged every inch of me in under five seconds. I wore black leggings that hugged my legs like a second skin and a cropped black top that exposed my midriff. I thought I looked good, but the way she raised her brow made me falter.
“Straight through the hallway. Third door on your right. You’re late,” she said, her voice clipped. I wasn’t late, I was early, but I didn’t argue. Not here. Not on my first day. I headed straight to the training room.
***
The training room smelled like perfume and sweat. Mirrors lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and long beams that were narrower than any runway I had ever seen, stretched across the floor like tightropes. A dozen girls stood along the back wall, already lined up like statues. Beautiful, tall, and visibly annoyed at my entrance. Some with sharp cheekbones and hollow stares. Others with lips curled slightly at the corners like they already hated me. I forced my shoulders back. You’re a model, Elona. You belong. But that feeling didn’t last long.
“You. The new girl,” a woman snapped at me, standing like a queen in a room built for war. “I’m Madame Lisette Delance. I will be coaching you.”
She was striking, effortlessly intimidating. Her brunette hair fell in smooth waves just past her shoulders, not a single strand out of place despite the chaos she commanded. Her lips were a deep, sultry red, bold against her flawless olive-toned skin. She seemed to be in her early forties. She was breathtaking, more elegant than most women half her age and more commanding than any of the girls dared to be.
Her figure was lean, sculpted, and impossibly slender, thinner than mine, though I hated to admit it. But where I carried softness, she was carved from discipline and sharp lines. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in her body, only grace, poise, and power wrapped in black.
She wore sleek black leggings that clung like a second skin to her long legs and a fitted black blouse tucked perfectly into the waistband, cinching her narrow waist. She moved in high stiletto heels like she was gliding, not walking, each step deliberate, predatory, and confident. There was nothing casual about her. Nothing human enough to question.
Every girl in the room either feared her… or wanted to be her. As her eyes met mine across the studio, lips curving ever so slightly, I couldn’t tell which I was yet.
Her heels clacked against the floor as she walked toward me, holding a slim black pointer stick like it was a weapon. “Name?” she asked.
“Elona Everett.”
She circled me once like a hawk and stopped in front of me. “You’re too soft around the hips. And your arms need definition.”
I blinked.
“I-I modelled for The Dakota Agency. I’ve been on a billboard-”
“This isn’t Dakota Agency,” she cut in. “This is VFS. And here, we build machines. Not pretty little girls playing dress-up.” My heart dropped. She pointed toward the beam with the stick. “Walk.”
I looked at it. Barely six inches wide, elevated slightly off the ground. It felt like a trap. I climbed up, heels clicking nervously. “Chin up. Spine straight. Shoulders relaxed. Hips fluid. Walk like the world owes you something.” I took a step.
Thwack.
The stick landed across the top of my thigh, not hard, but enough to sting. I gasped. “Too stiff,” she snapped. “Again.” I tried again. This time with more sway.
Thwack.
“Too much sway. You’re not at a nightclub.”
Heat crept up my neck. Laughter echoed from the girls behind me. I didn’t have to look to know who it came from. A tall blonde girl with icy blue eyes and a frame like a ballerina whispered something to the girl beside her. They both giggled behind their hands. I clenched my jaw and tried again.
Thwack.
“You walk like a tourist in Milan. This is not a vacation, Miss Everett.”
She stopped me this time by placing the stick horizontally in front of my knees. “Posture,” she barked and jabbed lightly at my back. “You’re collapsing in your core. Hold it together.”
I stood straighter. My body was trembling from the pressure.
We did drills for hours. Walking the beam back and forth until our feet burned. Holding perfect posture for minutes at a time while balancing books on our heads. Calf lifts on the edge of the beam in five-inch stilettos. All while being critiqued mercilessly.
I saw one girl wobble slightly, and Madame Delance made her stand in the corner with a heavy book on her head for ten minutes without moving.
“Discipline,” she told us. “Models are soldiers in designer silk. You must suffer beautifully.”
My feet burned. Not the kind of burn that felt like progress, the kind that screamed in sharp, jagged stabs up the sides of my calves. My arches ached inside my heels, and my ankles trembled like brittle sticks. The training room was hot, claustrophobic, even though it was massive. Mirrors everywhere. You couldn’t escape yourself. The beam sat in the center of the room like a judgment altar, you couldn’t fake it. The mirror would show every wrong angle, every shake, and every falter.
“Again,” Madam Delance barked. Her pointer stick clacked against the ground like a metronome of pain.
I stepped up. My black leggings clung to my sweat-slicked legs. My cropped top felt tighter, wetter, pressing against my skin. I took one step forward on the beam. The heels, metallic, pin-point sharp, no cushion, clicked dangerously against the narrow path.
“Loosen the hips. Tighten the core. Eyes forward,” my eyes burned. I took another step. My arms floated to my sides, like they taught us. Graceful and ethereal, but my body was screaming.
My shin twitched. “You’re favoring the right,” she snapped. The stick whipped forward, landing with a sharp whap against the side of my thigh. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
“Balance is not a suggestion,” she said, circling me. “It is your identity.”
I stepped again. The beam felt like it narrowed with each move. I felt the eyes of the other girls behind me. Watching and waiting, hoping I would fall. One did earlier. A girl with soft brown eyes and a freckled nose. Her heel wobbled, and she fell forward, hands catching herself on the mat. Madame Delance had dragged her up by the arm.
“You want to crawl?” she hissed in her ear. “This isn’t kindergarten. Get out,” she was escorted out because she barely had the nergy to even walk. Not fired, but shamed. She was shoved into the side room with a stack of books to balance on her head for thirty minutes. So I wouldn’t fall. I couldn’t fall.
When I made it to the end of the beam, Madame Delance raised her hand. “Pose.” I turned, slowly. My heel caught the beam’s edge. I held my breath. “Pose, Miss Everett.”
I placed one foot slightly behind the other, shifted my hips, let my right shoulder lead as I twisted slightly and tilted my chin. The silence stretched. Finally, she nodded. “Again,” I walked back to start over again.
For an hour, it was this, beam drills, pivots, and turns. Then, they added weight belts. Five pounds around the waist. “Teaches core stability,” Madame Delance said.
Another hour. Then faster walking. Timed turns. Then the balancing drills.
One girl, Anna, was told to balance on one heel for two minutes. Her leg shook after thirty seconds. Madam Delance threw a rolled-up sock at her. “Unacceptable.”
Sweat rolled down my back. My hair clung to my neck.“We are going to do planks tomorrow, so be prepared not to disappoint me,” she said to us all.
She threw open a folder. It was our body stats. She read them out loud like we were being auctioned. “Elona Everett. Height: 5’9”. Waist: 26 inches. Hips: 38, too soft. Drop three inches,” my stomach flipped. She didn’t even look up. “Four weeks. Or you don’t walk,” I didn’t nod. I didn’t respond. I just stared at my reflection. Red-faced, damp, exhausted, and for the first time… unsure.
Was this worth it?
Then I saw Anna. Still trying, still balancing, and still here.
Yes. It was.
Madam Delance then moved us to the “Control Station.” That was what they called it. There was a long table laid out with food, but not for eating.
She pointed to each item and said one word: “Forbidden.” Bread. Cheese. Sugary drinks. Even bananas. “Too many carbs. Too much sodium. Too much sugar,” she said, and then she walked over to a tiny plate with a hard-boiled egg, half a cucumber, and a quarter of an avocado.
“This is your breakfast.” I felt sick. “You must memorize it. The calorie counts and nutrient breakdowns. I might just be quizzing you all on that. You are dismissed for the day.”
My stomach growled, and all I could think of was to eat a bowl of pasta I had skipped this morning, trying to come in ‘prepared.’
I did realize that the other girls didn’t like me, not because I was a threat, but because I wasn’t broken yet. And VFS liked broken girls. Malleable ones.
I saw how they whispered about me. I caught glances and the envy twisted with judgment. “She’s too pretty to be here,” one girl murmured.
“Too soft,” another replied. “She won’t last.”
I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to impress them. I was here for me and for every second that stick tapped my leg… every time they made me feel like I wasn’t enough, I thought about proving them wrong. By the end of the day, my body ached. My calves were tight, my back hurt, and I could feel the sting of bruises from the pointer stick, but I stood my ground.
“Miss Everett, see me in my office before you leave,” Madame Delance demanded before she walked out of the studio.
I hope that she doesn’t let me go due to failure in meeting her demands or requirements, because I’m not ready to quit.