Elona's POV
The studio was colder than I expected. Not just from the air-conditioning, but from the way the room looked at me as I stepped inside, white walls, camera lights, a glossy backdrop, and too many pairs of eyes that didn’t blink. The stylist shoved a hanger into my hands, the satin brushing my skin like a whisper I didn’t want to hear. Black lace, sheer panels, the kind of lingerie meant for someone who wanted to be looked at, not someone who wanted to be seen.
“Change in there,” she pointed to a narrow booth with a curtain that barely reached the floor.
After stepping into the changing room, my fingers trembled as I slipped out of my leggings, the chill biting into my bare legs. I could hear the photographer adjusting his camera outside, his voice low but impatient. The satin stuck slightly as I pulled it up, clinging where my skin was warm, exposing more of me than I was ready for. When I stepped out, the room went quieter.
Madame Delance was leaning on a chair, arms crossed, her red nails tapping against the backrest. Her gaze raked over me like I was another product sample instead of a person.
“Better,” she said, though her mouth twisted like she had bitten into something sour. “But fix the posture. Shoulders back. Chin up. You’re selling fantasy, not fatigue.”
I walked over where the glossy backdrop was. The photographer snapped a few test shots.“Look over your shoulder… like you have a secret,” he said.
I swallowed hard, forcing my chin just so, turning my body the way they wanted. Every angle felt calculated. Every pose felt like they were stripping away the last layer of me that I thought I could protect. When the flash went off, it burned into my vision, leaving spots behind. Between shots, Madame Delance prowled forward, pointer stick in hand. She used it to lift my chin higher.
“More arch in the back,” she ordered. The tip grazed my collarbone. I flinched. She smirked. “If a man isn’t thinking about you after one glance, you’re doing it wrong.”
I thought of Tristan. And how he would hate this. Hate them. Hate the way they made me stand here, pretending to be something I wasn’t ready to be. But I stayed silent, because speaking up here was like trying to shout underwater. Besides...I knew this part would come.
Once those first few shoots were done, I changed into different lingerie and headed back to the backdrop. The fluorescent lights above felt a little too bright today, like they were trying to burn the worry out of me. But no matter how much light filled the space, it couldn’t chase away the weight pressing in my chest. I kept thinking about Tristan, about the case, about Grace, about how quickly the walls seemed to be closing in on him. Every time I tried to focus on my poses, my mind would pull me back to the image of him standing in that boardroom, under fire, trying to hold it together. I hoped that it went well.
“Center, Elona,” Madame Delance’s clipped voice snapped me out of it.
I moved into position, standing under the main lighting rig in the center of the set. The lingerie was black lace, delicate and barely there, the kind of thing meant to look effortless even though it took forever to get right. The other girls adjusted themselves on either side of me, but I could feel their glares in my peripheral vision.
Jealousy had a way of poisoning the air here. I had felt it from the start, but lately it was sharper, almost hostile. Still, I lifted my chin, letting the photographer’s rapid clicks dictate my focus.
We shot individually, then as a group. When it came time for the commercial segment, the director moved us into staggered lines, the camera sweeping across us like it was inspecting a row of trophies. I could almost feel Madame Delance’s eyes burning into me from the corner.
It wasn’t lost on me that a few of the girls who had been around when I first joined weren’t here anymore. No explanation, just gone. They probably decided they had enough of Madame Delance’s impossible standards and acidic comments.
After the lingerie work, we moved to the makeup campaign shoot. Bright colors, heavy lights, and long hours in the chair while the artists “built the brand’s vision” on our faces. I sat quietly, letting them paint, while the envious energy swirled around me.
They had me sitting in the middle of a tall chair, surrounded by mirrors and bulbs that glared so bright my reflection felt like it was under interrogation. The makeup artist was brisk and professional in movement but not in tone.
“Close your eyes,” she said, dabbing primer onto my skin with cold fingers. Her hands moved fast, foundation, contour, concealer, like she was sculpting a face that wasn’t mine.
Madame Delance swept in mid-way, looking at me through the mirror as though I wasn’t in the room. “Go bolder with the eyes. She has the bone structure for it, don’t waste it.”
The artist obeyed, pressing glittering bronze shadow onto my lids until they felt heavy. Eyeliner sliced sharp wings past the corners of my eyes, mascara brushing my lashes into something that didn’t look like me anymore. When I opened my eyes again, the girl staring back wasn’t Elona Everett. She was someone who belonged in a high-gloss magazine spread, someone confident, untouchable, and manufactured.
They added lipstick last. It was a deep crimson. It bled into the cracks of my lips, a color too loud to hide behind. The photographer was already waiting by the backdrop. “Lean forward,” he directed. “Let the light catch your eyes. Now smile like you’re letting me in on a joke.”
I did as told, the corners of my mouth twitching into something that wasn’t a smile so much as a survival tactic. “Perfect,” he said.
Perfect. But I felt hollow, as if each brush stroke and camera click had taken pieces of me and swapped them for someone else’s reflection. And when the session ended, the red lipstick still clung stubbornly, even after I wiped my mouth. Like a reminder I couldn’t erase. I sat back at the dresser, Jasmine sat beside me.
She was quiet, always had been, but there was something gentle about her, something that made me want to protect her from this place. Her dark curls were loose today, tumbling over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her look even younger than she probably was.
“Hey,” she said softly. “I was wondering… maybe we could hang out sometime?”
I turned to her, surprised. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Her eyes lit up in a way that made me think no one had said yes to her in a long time. “I don’t… really have friends here,” she admitted, glancing around as if to make sure none of the others were listening. “And I’m not interested in trying with them. Too much… attitude.”
I smiled faintly. “I know exactly what you mean.”
She looked down, her fingers toying with the hem of her skirt. “Modeling’s been my dream since I was little. And I’m grateful for VFS... really. But… you’re the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like I’m a mistake.”
My chest softened at that. “Well, you’re not. And we will hang out. Just… tell me when." She beamed, and for a moment it felt like the air in here wasn’t so heavy.
After we wrapped for the day, Jasmine and I walked out together, talking about the industry, its highs, its cutthroat lows. The early evening air was cooler than inside, and I pulled my jacket around me.
Tristan’s car was parked right outside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to Jasmine.
She nodded. “Definitely.”
I hurried to the car, sliding in and exhaling. “Hey.” His gaze swept over me quickly, like he was taking inventory of whether I was okay. “How are you doing?” I asked softly.
He started the car but didn’t pull away right away. “The board wants me to take a leave of absence.” His voice was clipped, but I could hear the exhaustion underneath. “They want to help me and Rowan didn't even show up. My own lawyer betrayed me.”
I reached over, resting my hand on his thigh. “That doesn’t mean it’s the end.”
He shook his head slightly, then added, “There’s something else. Cris and I...well, mostly Cris, found something. About Estelle.” His voice dropped. “Her accident wasn’t an accident.”
I blinked, the words hitting like a cold wind. “What?”
“Cris is still digging. I told her to be careful, but she… she’s determined. I’m worried she might put herself in danger if she keeps going.”
A knot twisted in my stomach. “Gosh, Tristan… if she’s right...”
“I know,” he said sharply, then softened. “I’m just… trying to keep her safe without shutting her down.” We pulled away from VFS, not saying another word.
We drove in silence for a moment, the road humming under the tires. My mind spun, picturing Cris’s stubborn determination, and the danger lurking behind something like this.
When we pulled into Tristan’s driveway, my pulse quickened. A car was already parked there. I frowned. “Who’s here?” I asked.
"Might be Rowan... I hope not because I might just do something I might regret," he huffed before getting out of the car and I followed.
When we stepped inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee met us first. Rowan sat at the dining room table, fingers curled around a mug, his expression unreadable. And in the kitchen, Camille was moving with calculated ease as she was cooking.