Isn’t that Freya Ashford?!

The roar of applause felt distant, almost muted, as my name was called. "In third place, Freya Ashford!" Jordan Masters announced, his voice booming across the room. The crowd erupted in cheers, but my legs felt rooted to the floor.

Third place. I'd made it.

Before I could fully process it, Alessandro Valtieri—John Doe, as I'd foolishly thought of him until now—was there, extending his hand to me. He was every bit the picture of perfection: sharp suit, smooth confidence, and that signature smile that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. His green eyes sparkled mischievously as he leaned in closer than necessary.

"Congratulations, Freya," he said, his deep voice like silk against my nerves. "Though I must say, I'm not surprised. Talented and beautiful? A winning combination."