"Unlike the rest of us, all some people have to do is open their legs to get here," a voice sneers, followed by the sound of muffled laughter and snickers echoing around the room.
How childish.
I remain seated as the makeup artist works on me, her brushes gliding over my skin with practiced ease. She's competent enough, but I still have to correct her several times. "The eyeliner needs to be sharper," I say, tilting my chin slightly. "And blend the contour a bit more—my cheekbones need to pop, not look muddy."
She nods, flustered, and I sigh inwardly. Zander was right: I need my own makeup artist, someone who knows how to enhance my best features without me having to micromanage. He's been pulling strings like a magician, and it's only been a week since I quit my job. Now, here I am, modeling for one of the top designer brands in the world, showcasing their new line of luxury chokers.
I glance down at the sleek, black leather choker around my neck, adorned with an understated platinum clasp. It's from the same brand as the one Zander gave me, the diamond one—a thoughtful gift that had left me speechless. Despite my brief hiatus from modeling, I'm proud that I've kept my body and skin in pristine condition. It's one of the few things I've always had control over, no matter how chaotic life became.
"Shameless, really," the irritating voice cuts through my thoughts again. "Some of us put in hours of work to earn these spots."
The makeup artist finishes her last touch, and I stand, moving to the large dressing mirror. I take a moment to admire myself, tilting my head this way and that. The lighting catches the glow of my skin, the sharp lines of my jaw, and the delicate yet striking way the choker sits around my neck. Impressive, I think, a small smirk tugging at my lips.
I turn around slowly, my gaze locking onto the source of the annoying commentary: a tall, blonde model with icy gray eyes. "Come on," I say, my tone dripping with mockery. "Don't you know how hard it is to open your legs and secure a sponsor?"
The room falls silent, all eyes snapping to me as I stride toward him, confidence radiating from every step. I cross my arms and tilt my head slightly, giving him a saccharine smile.
"I mean, if it were so easy," I continue, my voice as sweet as poison, "you would've done it too."
His face flushes red, his jaw tightening. "I have self-respect," he spits, his voice shaking with anger.
I laugh, the sound sharp and cutting. "And look where that's gotten you," I say, my smile turning smug. "Pushed out by someone who 'opens his legs.'" I mimic his earlier words in a high, mocking tone, my eyes sparkling with challenge.
His hands clench into fists at his sides, but he doesn't respond. I feel a flicker of satisfaction at the sight. Emily once told me I had a gift for pissing people off, and honestly, I wear that as a badge of honor.
Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk away, my posture straight, my steps purposeful. Let him stew in his own insecurities. I've been in this industry for fourteen years—I've dealt with jealous, bitter co-workers more times than I can count. It's almost laughable how predictable they are. What can I say? I shine the brightest, and some people just can't handle it.
"Positions!" the director's booming voice snaps through the space, and the models scramble to their places. The chaos doesn't faze me; I feel entirely at home here, standing under the bright studio lights as the crew adjusts reflectors and sets up cameras.
The shoot begins, and I fall into rhythm effortlessly. Each snap of the camera feels like a pulse, a beat I've danced to for years. I pose with precision, tilting my head just right, angling my body to showcase the chokers in their full glory.
The director calls out, "Hold that! Perfect!" and I smirk inwardly. Of course it's perfect—it's me.
The set is a flurry of activity—assistants darting in and out to adjust lighting, stylists stepping in between shots to fix stray hairs or tweak my outfit. Yet, amidst the chaos, I remain calm, confident, and in control.
I feel alive, the lens capturing every angle of my body, every flicker of expression. This is where I belong, where I thrive. The energy, the attention, the power of commanding a room simply by existing—it fuels me.
As the shoot progresses, I catch the blonde model glaring at me from the sidelines, his envy almost palpable. I chuckle to myself, shifting effortlessly into another pose.
Let them talk. Let them whisper. At the end of
the day, I'm the one in the spotlight.