The runway was the place where Monica truly lived. The sound of heels against the floor, the shifting atmospheres that seemed to lull people into a trance—how glorious it all was. An image of dresses, fashion, lingerie, and trends as a particular advancement of power. No one can refuse life. And what happened—what made people fall silent—was that almost magical ability to drive men mad, turning life into a fleeting instant where they fell at her feet, and when they fell, they surrendered completely.
-I want to say no. —Monica whispered to her new friend Naomi Campbell. Dark-skinned, beautiful, and entirely out of the league of any man except those who somehow brought her trouble—men who had no idea what to do with their lives, utterly self-important and completely foolish.
-We all want to say no. But what do we do when they give us everything every woman asks for? —Naomi smiled.
-A date in Japan, thousands and thousands of euros flowing into my accounts. But farther away from home. —Monica whispered.
-And the movie? —Naomi asked. She wore a long evening gown she adored, and that was enough. To be seen. As beautiful as no one else had ever been, standing alongside all the women gathered there in a circle. A gala event, and that gala was a summary of life itself: power, money, and beauty.
They were invited, paid for an entire night. They were given fine food, and every principle of the brands was followed, and that was an opportunity in itself for anyone. They remained at their disposal and tried to turn the event into something beautiful—something that came alive and gave life in return.
The brand did not need them, yet they were there. Fashion and advertising are the ones who paid the bills.
-I want it for next year. I have some projects lined up, I'm still practicing my English, and I also keep working a bit on acting in my free afternoons. The roles I'm seeing are becoming more demanding, and they make me desperate in ways I'd rarely known before—and that's completely illogical for anyone. —Monica replied, noticing Carmen and Claudia approaching. When people came together, everything turned into attraction; beautiful women made things easier, they gave life.
They whispered about what had been said.
-I want to say no, I really do… but this is what I love. It's my purpose, and without that purpose, I feel like I'm no one, plain and simple. —Monica said again.
-You're going to do something great. You're an extraordinary woman. —Claudia told her. Her bright eyes were vivid and powerful. For some time now, Monica had noticed how they shifted from shades of green to blue, and blue back to green with unique tints of their own. They smiled, free and cool in their ease. How poetic it was to watch them.
-I heard they gave you some trouble. —Naomi replied. —That the Italians are being a bit intense now that you're the new face of cinema, and national pride seems to be awakening in all of them. I like that.
-It's Billy's fault. He makes the impossible possible. —Monica said, her voice completely in love. And that was exactly what was happening—everything that followed was just a point, a small transformation of steps and events that gave shape to reality.
-God, he's so beautiful! They whispered among themselves, almost allegorical about the opportunities, even if they wished to do otherwise.
A one-year contract as the face of a major Japanese brand, and another in Italy as the lady of fashion. Events seemed to cultivate relationships that bore fruit in life.
Billy refused to ignore it, and now he wanted to play the role of a young doctor—innocent, happy, and compassionate. The Rules of the Cider House were everything a man could want to do in a role, and if this were just a single step, there would be nothing left untraveled. He wanted success, and success was all he desired.
-It seems I have a busy schedule now. —Billy whispered, almost releasing the words into the air. It hardly mattered; they were just whispers drifting away.
Two films to shoot: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and then, two days later, The Cider House Rules—a moment of panic he would never forget. Each one was glorious and precisely commissioned, since in less than nine months he would have to work relentlessly, and if that effort were rewarded, then it would all be fair.
The scripts were part of his reading, carefully studied, marked up over the following months. Whoever wanted to do the bare minimum would fail; details were the work he longed for. He wanted everything. Now that he had been accepted as part of a chapter where his work fueled momentum, he loved that momentum and embraced every position it offered.
Taking a long sip of water, he needed to look thinner.
For his roles, that didn't mean losing muscle mass—he simply had to train intensely, slowly reduce his portions of meat, and continue what he was already doing. Beauty would not be the price, but when one is thinner, one appears less violent, less dangerous.
He kept reading the script and making notes while tasting a bite of melon—two melons in one week, two watermelons, and plenty of strawberries to eat—following a religious rigor that came from understanding diets. Chicken and meat on alternating days, and the rest was rice with vegetables.
How good life could be.
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