ELENA'S POINT OF VIEW
I stood outside Blake Modeling Enterprise, staring up at the building like it might swallow me whole.
My hands were shaking. I clasped them together, trying to steady myself.
This was it. My first day.
I took a deep breath and walked through the glass doors.
The lobby was sleek and modern, all white marble and chrome. A receptionist sat behind a curved desk, typing quickly without looking up.
"Excuse me," I said quietly.
She glanced up, her expression polite but distant. "Yes?"
"I'm Elena Hart. It's my first day. I'm supposed to report for training."
She typed something into her computer, then nodded. "Third floor. Training studio. Take the elevator on your left."
"Thank you."
I walked toward the elevator, my heels clicking against the marble. The sound echoed, making me feel too loud, too visible.
When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, I stepped into a hallway lined with photographs. Models in stunning poses, perfect lighting, flawless skin.
I looked down at myself.
I was wearing simple black pants and a white blouse. Professional. Appropriate. But nothing like the glamorous women staring down at me from the walls.
I found the training studio at the end of the hall. The door was open.
Inside, the room was huge. Mirrors lined one entire wall. A runway extended down the center. Bright lights hung from the ceiling, making everything feel too exposed.
And there were others.
Five women, maybe six, scattered around the room. They were beautiful. Not just pretty. Beautiful. The kind of beauty that made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.
They stood in small groups, talking and laughing like they'd known each other forever.
I stepped inside quietly, hoping no one would notice.
They noticed.
The conversations stopped. Heads turned.
I felt every pair of eyes on me.
"Hi," I said, forcing a smile. "I'm Elena. Elena Hart."
One of them, a tall woman with sleek black hair and sharp cheekbones, looked me up and down slowly.
"You're new," she said. Not a question. A statement.
"Yes. It's my first day."
Another woman, blonde with perfect curls, exchanged a glance with the first. "How did you get hired?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... I applied. Like everyone else, I assume."
"Hmm." The blonde's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Interesting."
A third woman, shorter with red hair, leaned against the mirror. "Do you have a portfolio?"
"No. Not yet."
"Experience?"
"No."
Silence.
The black-haired woman tilted her head. "So you've never modeled before."
"No."
"And they still hired you." She said it like it was suspicious. Like I must have cheated somehow.
I swallowed. "I guess so."
The blonde laughed softly. "Well. Good luck."
The way she said it didn't sound like she meant it.
Before I could respond, the door opened again.
A man walked in. Tall, lean, dressed in all black. His hair was pulled back in a bun, and he carried a tablet under one arm.
"Good morning, ladies," he said, his voice clipped and professional. "I'm Marco. I'll be your walk instructor for the next two weeks."
He set his tablet on a chair and turned to face us, his eyes scanning the group.
When his gaze landed on me, he paused.
"You. What's your name?"
"Elena Hart."
"First day?"
"Yes."
He nodded once. "Alright. Let's see what we're working with. Everyone, line up along the mirror. We'll start with basic posture."
The other women moved quickly, falling into a perfect line. I joined them, standing at the end.
Marco walked down the line slowly, adjusting shoulders, tilting chins, correcting stances.
When he reached me, he stopped.
"Stand up straight."
I straightened.
"Straighter."
I tried again.
He sighed. "You're slouching. Shoulders back. Chin up. Chest forward."
I adjusted, feeling awkward and stiff.
"Better. Barely." He moved on.
My face burned.
The black-haired woman smirked.
Marco clapped his hands. "Alright. We'll start with runway walks. One at a time. I want to see your natural walk first. No corrections yet. Just walk."
He pointed to the blonde. "You. Go."
She stepped onto the runway and walked. Confidence. Smooth. Graceful. Her hips swayed naturally, her head held high. She looked like she'd been born on a runway.
When she finished, Marco nodded. "Good. Next."
One by one, the women walked. Each one is better than the last. Elegant. Effortless. Perfect.
My stomach twisted tighter with each walk.
Then Marco pointed at me. "You. Let's see it."
I stepped onto the runway, my heart pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it.
I started walking.
Halfway down, I realized I didn't know what to do with my hands.
I reached the end, turned awkwardly, and walked back.
When I stopped, the room was silent.
Marco stared at me. "That was..."
I braced myself.
"Awful."
The redhead laughed. Quickly covered it with a cough. But I heard it.
"You walk like you're going to the grocery store," Marco said flatly. "No rhythm. No confidence. No presence."
My face burned hotter.
"Try again."
I walked again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, Marco stopped me.
"Your arms are stiff."
"You're looking at the ground."
"Your steps are uneven."
By the fifth attempt, my legs were shaking. Not from exhaustion. From humiliation.
The other women whispered to each other, not even bothering to hide it.
Marco finally waved me off. "We'll work on it. A lot of work. Next."
I stepped off the runway and moved to the back of the group, my throat tight.
I would not cry.
I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
After what felt like hours, Marco finally called for a break.
"Fifteen minutes. Hydrate. Stretch. We'll move on to posing next."
The women scattered. I stayed near the back, pretending to check my phone.
The blonde and the black-haired woman walked past me, talking just loud enough for me to hear.
"She's not going to last a week."
"I know. Did you see her walk? Tragic."
"Why do they even hire people like that?"
"Probably has connections. Or slept with someone."
I gripped my phone tighter.
Don't react. Don't give them anything.
The redhead glanced at me, almost sympathetic. But she didn't say anything.
The break ended too quickly.
Marco returned, this time with a photographer. A woman with short gray hair and an intimidating camera.
"This is Lena," Marco said. "She'll be doing test shots. I want to see how you pose. How you move in front of the camera."
One by one, the women stood in front of the camera. Lena directed them, adjusting their angles, their expressions.
They looked natural. Beautiful. Like they were born to be photographed.
Then it was my turn.
I stepped in front of the camera, my palms sweating.
"Relax your shoulders," Lena said.
I tried.
"No. You're too stiff. Loosen up."
I adjusted.
"Tilt your head. Not that much. Less. Chin down. No, up."
I felt like a broken doll being twisted into position.
"Smile."
I smiled.
"Not like that. Natural. Relax."
How was I supposed to relax when she kept yelling at me?
Lena lowered her camera and sighed. "You're overthinking. Stop trying so hard."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just do better."
She raised the camera again.
I tried. I really tried.
But every click of the camera felt like a judgment.
Finally, Lena waved me off. "We'll work on it."
The same thing Marco said.
Translation: You're terrible.
By the time the session ended, I was exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally.
Marco dismissed us. "See you tomorrow. Same time."
The other women left quickly, laughing and chatting as they walked out together.
I stayed behind, gathering my things slowly.
The door opened.
Miss Rose stepped inside.
I straightened immediately.
She walked toward me, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Her expression was unreadable.
"Miss Hart."
"Yes?"
"How was your first day?"
I hesitated. "It was... challenging."
"Good." She stopped in front of me, her eyes sharp. "Challenge builds character. Or it breaks you. We'll see which one you are."
She turned and walked away without another word.
I stood there, staring after her.
Challenge builds character.
Or it breaks you.
I wouldn't break.
I couldn't.
I left the building as the sun was setting. My feet ached. My body was sore. My pride was bruised.
But I hadn't quit.
I sat in the car heading home, staring out the window.
Today was awful.
The mockery. The judgment. The constant corrections.
But I'd survived.
And tomorrow, I'll go back.
Because I didn't come this far to give up now.
The car pulled up to the mansion. The lights were on inside. Alex was home.
I took a deep breath, smoothing down my hair, fixing my expression.
He shouldn't know how hard today was.
He shouldn't know how much I'd struggled.
Because if he did, he'd probably tell me I wasn't good enough.
And I was starting to believe that myself.
But I wouldn't let him see it.
I stepped out of the car and walked toward the house.
One day down.
Many more to go.