Evelyn POV
The room changed before anyone said a word.
I noticed it in the way voices lowered—not abruptly, but instinctively. In how people shifted their weight, adjusted their posture, straightened backs that hadn't been slouched a second earlier. Even before the announcement came, something had already arrived.
Pressure.
We were gathered on the third-floor briefing hall, a wide space with floor-to-ceiling windows and muted gray walls that reflected light without warmth. It wasn't glamorous. Milan rarely wasted elegance on moments meant to test you.
New models sat in neat rows, some familiar now after days of training, others still strangers whose names I hadn't learned yet but whose faces I recognized. Faces you begin to catalog without meaning to—who walks like they own space, who hides behind confidence, who watches everyone else too carefully.
I took a seat near the middle.
As I settled in, someone shifted beside me.
It was subtle. Almost polite.
But I noticed.
The woman to my right adjusted her chair an inch away from mine, the movement quick, controlled—like a reflex she didn't want noticed. Her posture remained flawless, chin lifted, shoulders squared, but her hand tightened briefly around the notebook in her lap.
I remembered her.
She'd been at the audition. Tall. Ash-brown hair pulled into a severe knot. Sharp eyes that flicked toward me the moment my name had been called, then away just as quickly. At the time, I'd thought nothing of it.
Now, I did.
She didn't look at me again.
Across the room, low murmurs continued. Speculation hung in the air like static.
"Did you hear—"
"They wouldn't call all of us for nothing."
"I thought Cross already had that brand—"
The name wasn't said loudly, but it didn't need to be.
Cross.
The door at the front of the hall opened, and conversation died instantly.
Liora walked in first, tablet tucked under her arm, expression unreadable. She wasn't smiling. That alone told us everything we needed to know.
Behind her came Marta, heels clicking sharply against the floor, presence cutting through the room like a blade.
No greeting. No small talk.
Marta stopped at the front, surveyed us once, and then spoke.
"Milan has secured a preliminary contract."
The room inhaled as one.
"With Halcyon Atelier."
That did it.
Whispers rippled through the hall despite themselves.
Halcyon Atelier wasn't just big—it was untouchable. A luxury brand that chose its faces carefully, sparingly. For years, Cross Entertainment had dominated that space. Their models wore Halcyon like armor.
Not anymore.
"This is not public information," Marta continued, voice calm, firm. "And it will not remain private for long."
Liora stepped forward. "The industry already suspects. Media outlets are circling. Cross is circling."
That name landed heavier this time.
"The contract," Marta said, "is contingent."
A pause.
"Halcyon wants a face."
The silence sharpened.
"A new one," Liora added. "One that signals transition."
Every spine in the room straightened.
Marta's gaze swept over us. "They want to see potential under pressure. Not polish. Not history. Not legacy."
Her eyes lingered—just briefly—on me.
I didn't react.
"You will be assessed," Marta continued. "Over the next two weeks. Training. Camera presence. Adaptability. Discipline."
She paused.
"And composure."
A model in the front row shifted, lips pressing together. Someone behind me exhaled too sharply. The woman beside me stilled completely, every muscle locked into stillness.
"This is not a competition," Liora said smoothly.
No one believed her.
"It is an evaluation," Marta corrected. "Those who fail to keep up will be reassigned."
Reassigned.
A polite word for forgotten.
The murmurs returned, sharper now, edged with calculation.
"I heard Halcyon wanted a European face—"
"No, they want contrast—"
"This is Milan's chance to—"
"Quiet," Marta snapped.
The room obeyed instantly.
"You are here because Milan saw something in you," she said. "That does not mean Milan will protect you."
Her gaze hardened.
"There are no alliances here. No favorites. No safety nets."
She let that sink in before adding, "And no guarantees."
The woman beside me finally looked at me.
Just once.
Her eyes were assessing. Cool. Measuring.
Not hostile.
Yet.
"What's your name?" she asked quietly, barely moving her lips.
"Evelyn," I replied.
A beat.
"Lena," she said. "You're the Hart girl."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
Her mouth curved—not into a smile, but something close. "Figures."
Before I could respond, Marta spoke again.
"You will receive individual schedules by end of day. Prepare accordingly."
And just like that, the meeting was over.
No applause. No encouragement.
Just tension, left to ferment.
As chairs scraped and models stood, the room buzzed with restrained energy. Conversations sparked instantly—some loud, some whispered, some deliberately carried out of earshot.
I remained seated for a moment longer.
This was different.
This wasn't training.
This was positioning.
Lena rose beside me, smoothing her trousers. "Looks like Milan wants a war without calling it one."
"I don't think they care what it's called," I said.
She glanced at me again, sharper this time. "You don't look nervous."
"I am," I replied honestly. "I just don't show it well."
She studied me for a second longer, then nodded. "That might save you."
Or make you a target.
As we filed out, I caught fragments of conversation.
"Did you see how Marta looked at her?"
"She's untested."
"That didn't stop them from noticing."
Near the elevators, two models fell silent when I approached. Another offered a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Attention had shifted.
I felt it settle on my shoulders—not heavy, but insistent.
This was what visibility cost.
Liora caught up to me near the exit.
"You okay?" she asked, tone light but eyes sharp.
"I think so."
"Good," she said. "Because this is where things stop being theoretical."
"What does that mean?"
"It means Milan didn't just take a contract," she replied. "They made a statement."
"And Cross won't like that."
Her mouth twitched. "Cross rarely likes anything they didn't approve first."
I sighed deeply. "I guess."