Evelyn POV
The elevator doors slid open on Milan's intake floor, and the quiet shifted.
Not louder. Not chaotic.
Just… aware.
I felt it before I understood it — the subtle recalibration of attention, the way movement slowed half a beat as people registered someone new. Not curiosity exactly. Measurement.
Liora stepped out first, already in motion. "Stay close," she said without looking back. "Not because you need guidance. Because this floor likes to pretend it's informal."
We walked past glass walls and open spaces where bodies moved with purpose. Stretching. Practicing turns. Adjusting posture under the watchful eyes of trainers who didn't waste words or time.
No one smiled.
No one frowned either.
They simply looked.
"This is intake," Liora said quietly as we passed a mirrored studio. "Everyone here has been approved. That doesn't mean anyone's impressed yet."
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral even as my pulse quickened.
I had expected nerves. What surprised me was the absence of fear.
This wasn't like Hart Enterprises, where every glance carried judgment wrapped in expectation. Here, attention didn't feel personal.
It felt earned.
A woman intercepted us near the center hall — mid-forties, sharp posture, hair pulled back so tightly it looked like a decision rather than a style.
"Evelyn Hart," she said.
"Yes."
"I'm Marta. Training director."
Her gaze moved over me in one slow sweep — not appraising my clothes, not my face. My balance. My stance. The way I held my shoulders without thinking.
"You'll observe today," she said. "Participate when instructed. Speak when addressed."
"I understand."
She paused, studying me another second longer.
"Good."
Then she turned and walked away.
Liora leaned closer. "Congratulations. She didn't dismiss you."
"Is that rare?"
"Extremely."
We were guided into one of the larger studios and instructed to stand along the mirrored wall. I took a position near the end, close enough to see everything clearly without placing myself in the center of anything.
The room filled quickly.
Models arrived in small clusters — some confident, some deliberately aloof. Conversations hushed as Marta entered again, clipboard in hand.
"Line up."
They did.
I joined them.
Names were called. Corrections given. Postures adjusted with brief, efficient touches. Praise was rare. Silence was not punishment — it was default.
When the first walk-through began, I stayed still, watching.
One by one, models took the floor. Some commanded attention effortlessly. Others tried too hard. A few were quietly exceptional in ways that didn't announce themselves.
I studied all of it.
When my name was finally called, it wasn't special.
"Hart."
I stepped forward.
No instruction.
No encouragement.
Just space.
I walked.
I didn't rush. I didn't perform. I let my body do what it had learned in private — in mirrors no one else had stood behind, in rooms where expectation didn't hover.
When I finished, Marta said nothing.
"Again."
I turned and walked back.
Still nothing.
I returned to the line, pulse steady but mind alert.
Silence could mean anything here.
During break, the room loosened slightly. Conversations resumed in low tones. Phones came out. Water bottles were passed around.
I sat where I was told and drank slowly, noticing the way attention flickered toward me and away again.
Not exclusion.
Evaluation.
A woman approached — tall, sharp-featured, confidence worn like armor.
"You're new," she said.
"Yes."
"Milan doesn't usually add unknowns this late."
"I was invited."
Her lips curved faintly. "So I heard."
There it was.
Not accusation. Just acknowledgment.
"Talia," she added. "Three years."
"Evelyn."
She nodded once. "Good luck."
Luck again.
I wondered how many people here had relied on it.
The rest of the day unfolded with deliberate pacing — posture sessions, branding discussions, silent observation of media training rooms where every movement was dissected and refined.
No one asked about my family.
No one mentioned my background.
They cared only about what could be shaped.
At one point, an assistant adjusting my measurements paused.
"Do you have prior representation?"
"No."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Interesting."
Not praise. Not concern.
Just information.
By late afternoon, my body ached in a way that felt earned. Not punished. Used.
As we prepared to leave, my phone vibrated in my hand.
A notification.
A tagged photo.
Blurry. Cropped poorly. Me walking the studio floor.
No caption. Just a location tag.
The comments were minimal.
Is that—Looks familiar.Milan's quiet lately.
I locked my phone without reacting.
Liora caught the movement. "Already?" she asked mildly.
"Yes."
She nodded. "Then you're doing something right."
Outside, the city felt different — not welcoming, not hostile. Just wider.
As we walked toward the car, exhaustion settled into my muscles, but beneath it was something steadier.
I wasn't being ignored.
I wasn't being embraced either.
I was being watched.
And for the first time, that didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like the beginning of a test.
One I fully intended to pass