ELENA'S POINT OF VIEW
Three days felt like three weeks.
I tried to stay busy. Helped Victoria with her gardening. Organized my closet twice. I watched movies I didn't pay attention to.
But my phone stayed glued to my side.
Every time it buzzed, my heart jumped.
On the third day, Isabelle showed up at the house with shopping bags and a mischievous grin.
"Get dressed," she announced, barging into my room. "We're going out."
"Where?"
"Does it matter? You've been moping around this house like a ghost. Come on."
I couldn't argue with that.
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in a small café downtown. Isabelle ordered us both iced lattes and a ridiculous amount of pastries.
"So," she said, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. "Are you going to tell me what's been bothering you?"
"Nothing's bothering me."
"Elena. You've checked your phone six times since we sat down."
I blinked. "Have I?"
"Yes. So spill. What's going on?"
I hesitated, then sighed. "I applied for a modeling job."
Her eyes widened. "You did? That's amazing! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I don't know if I'll get it. And I... I didn't use Alex's name."
She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"I used my maiden name. Elena Hart. I didn't want them to hire me just because I'm married to your brother."
Isabelle studied me for a long moment. Then she smiled. "That's really brave, Elena."
"Or really stupid."
"No. It's brave." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "And you're going to get that job."
"You don't know that."
"I do. Because you're…"
My phone rang.
Both of us froze.
I looked down at the screen. Unknown number.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Answer it," Isabelle whispered, her eyes wide with excitement.
My hands shook as I swiped to accept the call.
"Hello?"
"Is this Elena Hart?"
The voice was professional. Female. Clipped.
"Yes. This is she."
"This is Blake Modeling Enterprise. We received your application."
I couldn't breathe.
"We'd like to schedule an audition for tomorrow at ten a.m. Does that work for you?"
"Yes!" The word burst out too quickly. Too eagerly. "Yes, that works perfectly."
"Good. Bring your identification and be prepared for a runway walk. Don't be late."
"I won't. Thank you. Thank you so much."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my mind spinning.
"Well?" Isabelle demanded.
I looked up at her, a smile breaking across my face. "I have an audition. Tomorrow."
She squealed so loudly that half the café turned to look at us.
"Oh my God, Elena! I told you! I told you you'd get it!"
She jumped up and hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. But I didn't care. I hugged her back, laughing, my heart racing with a mixture of terror and excitement.
I had an audition.
A real audition.
And tomorrow, I'd find out if I could actually do this.
Traffic buzzed as I stepped onto the sidewalk outside Blake Modeling Enterprise, the crisp air hinting at an early start.
It wasn't as massive as Reyes Global Holdings, but it was sleek. Modern. Intimidating in its own way.
I took a deep breath and walked inside.
The receptionist barely glanced at me. "Name?"
"Elena Hart."
She typed something into her computer. "Third floor. Room 304."
"Thank you."
The elevator ride felt endless. My palms were sweating. My heart wouldn't slow down.
When the doors opened, I stepped into a hallway lined with doors. I found 304 and knocked.
"Come in."
I pushed the door open.
The office was small but organized. A desk sat in the center, papers stacked neatly on one side. Behind it sat a woman, maybe in her late thirties, with sharp eyes and an even sharper expression.
She looked up at me. Her gaze swept over me from head to toe in less than two seconds.
"Elena Hart?"
"Yes."
"Sit."
I sat quickly, folding my hands in my lap.
She pulled a folder from her desk and flipped it open. My application. My photos.
She studied them in silence.
The silence stretched.
Finally, she looked up. "You've never modeled before."
It wasn't a question.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm willing to learn."
"Willing to learn," she repeated flatly. "This isn't a hobby, Miss Hart. This is a business."
"I understand that."
"Do you?" She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Because your photos are amateur at best. Your resume is blank. And your face..."
She paused, her eyes narrowing.
"Your face isn't what we typically look for."
My chest tightened. "Oh."
"But," she continued, standing up and walking around the desk, "your body is exactly what we need."
I blinked. "What?"
She gestured for me to stand. "Up. Let me see you properly."
I stood, my legs shaky.
She circled me slowly, her eyes critical. Judgmental.
"Height is good. Posture needs work. But your proportions are perfect." She stopped in front of me, arms still crossed. "You might actually have potential."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet. I need to see you walk."
My stomach dropped. "Walk?"
"Runway walk. Down the hall and back. Show me what you've got."
She opened the door and gestured for me to go first.
I stepped into the hallway, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest.
"Whenever you're ready," she said, leaning against the doorframe.
I took a breath.
Then I started walking.
I didn't know what I was doing. I'd never walked a runway in my life. But I tried to remember what I'd seen on TV. Confidence. Shoulders back. Head high.
I walked to the end of the hallway, turned, and walked back.
When I stopped in front of her, she said nothing.
Just stared at me.
The silence was unbearable.
"That was..." she began slowly.
I braced myself for rejection.
"Surprisingly good."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Your posture needs adjustment. Your turns need polish. But your natural rhythm is there." She pushed off the doorframe and walked back into the office. "You're raw. Unrefined. But you have something."
Hope fluttered in my chest.
She sat back down at her desk and pulled out a contract.
"We'll take you on. Probationary period. Three months. If you prove yourself, we'll extend. If not, you're out."
"I'll prove myself," I said quickly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Confident."
"Determined."
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Fine. Sign here."
She slid the contract across the desk.
I picked up the pen, my hand trembling, and signed my name.
Elena Hart.
She took the contract back and stamped it. "You start Monday. Eight a.m. Don't be late."
"I won't."
"And Miss Hart?"
"Yes?"
"This industry will chew you up and spit you out if you let it. Toughen up. Fast."
I nodded. "I will."
She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.
I walked out of that office, down the hallway, into the elevator, and out into the street.
And then I stopped.
Right there on the sidewalk.
And I smiled.
A real, genuine smile.
Because I did it.
I got the job.
Not as Elena Reyes.
As Elena Hart.
And for the first time since this whole arrangement started, I felt like I'd accomplished something that was truly mine.