Evelyn POV
Morning arrived quietly.
Not the kind of quiet that came from being ignored, or forgotten, or deliberately avoided—but the honest stillness of a place that didn't know me yet.
I lay awake in my new bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of an estate slowly waking up. Somewhere nearby, a door closed. Footsteps passed. A car engine hummed to life and faded into the distance.
No servants outside my door.No schedule pinned to my wall.No voice reminding me where I needed to be.
Just me.
For a moment, panic flickered through my chest—thin, sharp, instinctive. I had spent my entire life reacting to expectations. Waking up without them felt almost… wrong.
Then the memory of yesterday grounded me.
The contract.The signature.The way my hand had trembled when the pen touched paper—and steadied when it didn't stop.
I pushed myself upright and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool beneath my feet. The room smelled faintly of fresh paint and something citrusy—probably whatever cleaning agent Milan preferred.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
A message.
Liora:Good morning, star-in-progress.Car arrives in forty minutes. Don't panic. Eat something.
I stared at the screen, then smiled before I could stop myself.
No one had ever texted me like that before.
I showered quickly, letting the warm water run longer than necessary, as if I needed proof that this was real. When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
I looked the same.
But I wasn't.
I dressed carefully—simple black trousers, a fitted cream blouse, low heels. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed for attention. Milan hadn't hired me to be decorative. They had hired me to be molded.
That thought made my stomach twist—not with fear, but with anticipation.
By the time I stepped outside, the car was already waiting.
Liora leaned against it, phone in one hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She glanced up when she saw me and grinned.
"Look at you," she said. "Still standing. Good sign."
"Is it?" I asked as I approached.
"Very," she replied. "Most people wake up on their first real day and immediately regret all their life choices."
She opened the car door for me, then slid into the driver's seat. As we pulled away from the estate, I glanced back once—just once—watching the building recede behind us.
No regret followed.
"Today isn't glamorous," Liora said as traffic thickened. "I want to be clear about that."
"I didn't expect glamorous," I replied.
"Good. Because today is structure. Observation. Assessment. You'll meet trainers, coordinators, image consultants. Some will like you. Some won't. None of that matters."
"What does?" I asked.
She glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "How well you listen."
The Milan headquarters came into view soon after—glass and steel, sleek without being cold. It didn't loom the way Hart Enterprises had. It didn't intimidate.
It welcomed.
Inside, the building buzzed with quiet activity. Models passed through the lobby in clean lines—tall, poised, varied in style and presence. No two of them looked the same, and yet they all moved with a shared confidence.
This wasn't Miranda's world.
This was mine.
We were led through hallways that smelled faintly of coffee and fabric, past rooms where voices counted rhythm and posture was corrected with firm precision.
"This is the intake level," Liora explained. "Everyone starts here. No exceptions."
A woman approached us—mid-forties, sharp eyes, hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun.
"Evelyn Hart," she said, not asking. "I'm Marta. Training director."
I straightened instinctively.
"You'll shadow today," Marta continued. "Watch. Learn. Speak only when addressed."
I nodded. "Understood."
She studied me for a moment longer, then turned and walked away without another word.
Liora leaned close. "She's terrifying. You'll love her."
The hours passed in a blur of observation. Runway drills. Media posture sessions. Branding discussions spoken in clipped, professional tones. No one cared where I came from. No one asked about my family.
They only cared about potential—and discipline.
By midday, my feet ached and my head buzzed, but I felt more alive than I had in years.
During a brief break, I sat alone near a window, sipping water, watching the city move below. My phone buzzed again.
A message from an unknown number.
Unknown:Training day?
I didn't need the name to know who it was.
I stared at the screen for a long moment before replying.
Me:Yes.
The response came almost immediately.
Unknown:Good.
That was it.
I set the phone aside, heart beating a little faster than necessary.
When the day finally ended, Liora found me exactly where she'd left me.
"You survived," she said. "Still breathing. Another good sign."
"I liked it," I admitted.
She smiled, softer this time. "That's the dangerous part."
As we headed back toward the exit, exhaustion settled into my bones—but beneath it was something steadier.
Momentum.
For the first time, my life wasn't being discussed behind closed doors.
It was unfolding in front of me.
And tomorrow, Milan would expect more.
So would I.