Viola's POV
I wake up before the sun rises, my nerves buzzing like a live wire beneath my skin.
Today is the day of the audition.
Despite the chill in my apartment, I'm sweating.
The city outside is still and silver, the buildings like sleeping giants.
I drag myself out of bed, make a pot of strong coffee, and sit at my tiny kitchen table, staring into the steam.
My phone buzzes. Its Garrett
> My (fake) boyfriend: "Good luck today. You'll do better than you think."
I smile without meaning to.
My fingers hover over the screen before I type:
> Me: "Thank you. I'm terrified."
> My (fake) boyfriend: "That's normal. You'll be fine. Text me after."
I take that as my cue to get moving.
After a hot shower, I wrestle my hair into something sleek and put on the outfit the agency instructed: plain skinny jeans, a black tank top, and heels. No makeup. Just me.
The subway is packed, but I manage to find a seat after struggling for it with a pimple-faced teenager.
"Hah!" I say triumphantly, my tongue stuck out as the boy gives me a middle finger (rude!) from the aisle.
Rolling my eyes, I slouch back into the leather seats, closing my eyes as every jolt of the train feels like it rattles in my chest.
When I get off and follow the directions Garrett sent me, I end up standing in front of a tall glass building with the words "Zenith Models" printed in sleek silver across the front.
Inside, the air smells like perfume and clean paper. I check in with a bored-looking receptionist who barely glances at me before handing me a clipboard.
"Fill this out and wait in the lounge."
The lounge is full of girls. Tall, slender, perfect girls.
Some are whispering in French. French!
Others scroll through their phones with bored expressions. A few look just as anxious as I feel.
I sit in the corner and fill out the form with shaking hands.
"Viola Munroe," I write in shaky block letters.
Age: 24. Height: 5'9. Hair: Blonde. Eyes: Hazel. Previous Experience: None.
By the time they call my name, I'm sweating through my tank top.
A black American woman with razor-straight black hair and red heels stands at the door.
"Viola Munroe?"
I rise, knees wobbling.
"This way." she says shortly and sets a brisk walk, all the while introducing herself.
Her name is Camilla. Apparently, she's the head of scouting for Zenith, and she has a no-nonsense air that makes my spine straighten automatically.
I follow her into a large studio with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, lights, and a long, white platform in the center.
There are three people seated at a table: Camilla, a man in his mid-forties with silver hair named Marcel who oversees editorial campaigns, and a younger woman with pink glasses named Rae who is a stylist.
Camilla gestures. "Walk to the end of the platform, pause, then come back. No posing. Just natural." she orders sternly.
I do as instructed, heels clacking.
I keep my gaze straight, channeling every model I've ever seen in a magazine.
"Stop," Marcel huffs, annoyed. I gulp, hoping I haven't lost my chance yet but the man doesn't tell me to get out, rather he says, "Try it barefoot."
I blink but remove my shoes immediately.
It feels oddly freeing.
When I walk again, Rae murmurs, staring at me with a fascinated, almost clinical gaze, "She has good bones. Clean lines."
"Turn left," Camilla orders sharply. "Profile. Now right. Hands on your hips. Chin down." she crosses her arms, eyebrows pinching as she surveys me before uttering another quick correction.
It goes on for nearly half an hour.
Then Marcel says, "Can you smile like you're in love?"
My breath catches. In love? How?
Then I think of Garrett Moreau, his rare half-smiles, the curve of his mouth when he's bemused, how he looks at me, the way his blue eyes gleam and the weak feeling I get when he says my name.
I flush and I smile, all teeth.
I hear Rae suck in a breath.
Marcel leans forward. "Where did we find her again?" He says, looking more interested than he has been since I stepped into the studio.
Camilla glances at the form. "Referred by Garrett Moreau." she says, mouth twisting like she's puzzled.
Marcel raises a brow. "Of course."
They whisper among themselves before Camilla turns to me. "We're offering you a one-year contract. Effective immediately. Are you interested?"
My brain short-circuits. "Wait, what?"
Marcel chortles. "You're a natural. We'd like to feature you at the National Autumn Runway Gala next week."
My heart skips. "Yes. I, yes!" I squeak.
Camilla nods . "Come tomorrow at eight a.m. for fittings. Don't be late." she warns before passing me a folder, containing the contract and everything I need to know about their agency.
Later, I step out of the building in a daze, gripping the folder like it's a life preserver.
Once I'm home, I drop onto the couch and text Garrett.
> Me: "I got it. They offered me a contract. I'm going to be in a national runway event! ＼(◎o◎)／"
> My (fake) boyfriend: "Told you."
> Me: "Thank you. Seriously. I never would've done this without you."
> My (fake) boyfriend: "You would've. I just gave you the first nudge."
> Me: "I wish I could see you. I want to tell you everything."
There's a pause.
> My (fake) boyfriend: "I'm busy tonight. But tell me about it anyway."
So I do. I send a flurry of messages, describing every second.
He only replies once or twice, but I imagine him reading them, maybe even smiling.
It warms my heart.
---
The next few weeks blur into fittings, photoshoots, and lessons.
Camilla introduces me to Nadine, a patient and demanding runway coach.
She's in her fifties, tall and willowy, with sharp cheekbones and a witty almost snarky personality.
"Posture, Viola. Chin up, always. You're a goddess, not a duck." she critic's, rolling her eyes when I squawk in offense, "Doesn't mean you can't be the distant relative of one." She says in exasperation.
I squawk louder to spite her.
Then there's Sasha, the make-up artist, a bubbly Latina with dyed lavender curls who became my favorite person in the world after she brought me a black Expresso when we had a 2:am shoot.
"You're going to slay that runway," she tells me one afternoon as she readies me for another shoot. "And if your mysterious boyfriend's not begging for your attention after this show, he's blind."
I blush. "It's not like that."
"Girl. You're glowing."
Then there's Theo, a photographer with a mysterious past and too many tattoos.
He always plays French music during our shoots.
He's weird. But nice weird.
"You have sad eyes," he tells me once. "That's good. The camera loves melancholy."
The day of the runway show arrives in a whirlwind of fabric, lights, and high-pitched instructions.
I'm placed in the final set, couture gowns by the legendary designer Elira Morgen. The dress they chose for me is a cascade of navy silk and silver thread.
"You're the face of the finale," Elira herself says. "Don't trip."
No pressure.
Backstage is chaos. Models in various states of undress, assistants darting like bees, photographers yelling directions.
But when I step onto the runway and the lights hit me, everything falls away.
They have prepared for this moment.
I close my eyes (I see a flash of ocean eyes and my heart calms)
Opening them, I move.
I float across the runaway, incandescent in the colours of the sky and ocean.
The applause is thunderous.