The heels slipped sideways, and her body came down hard on the stage. Her knees hit the ground with a thud, and she winced in pain.
"Ma Gohd, are you o-kay, Mees Zhenifeur?" Cookie cried, rushing toward her.
Jennifer caught herself before Cookie could reach her, her breath ragged with embarrassment. Below the stage, a few models giggled mockingly. Natalia's smug smile stood out among them — arms folded, chin lifted, her eyes gleaming with contempt.
"I'm fine," Jennifer muttered, yanking her hand free from Cookie's grasp. She straightened up, hissed under her breath, and cursed quietly. Then she marched to the end of the stage, inhaled deeply, and started again.
But after the first step, she thought she saw him — Vincent — seated in the audience. And beside him, Tracy, her arm looped through his, whispering into his ear. Tracy's smile was a blade; Vincent's expression — proud, entertained — cut deeper.
Unworthy, that smile seemed to say.
Jennifer's foot missed a step, and she slipped again. This time, pain shot up her leg — sharp, biting. She gasped. Her ankle gave way beneath her.
Cassandra was the first to reach her. "What are you doing, Jennifer?" she asked, her eyes bright with worry as she helped her off the stage.
Cookie, slightly annoyed at Jennifer's state of mind, turned toward Natalia. "Mees Natalia Donovan!"
Natalia stepped forward. The group of girls broke into cheers.
"Rembair… let your bod-ee speek… let your eepz tell ze sto-ree, oui?" Cookie said with theatrical flourish.
"Oui," Natalia replied with a confident smile.
The chatter in the studio dimmed the moment she stepped onto the stage. Even in rehearsal clothes, Natalia carried herself as though the spotlight belonged to her alone. Her heels clicked — a sharp, deliberate rhythm that sliced clean through the air. Shoulders poised, chin lifted, she moved with liquid precision; every sway of her hips was calculated yet effortless.
The other models paused, transfixed, as she turned at the end of the runway. Her lashes fluttered, her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile — the kind that said she knew exactly the effect she had.
Natalia didn't just walk; she claimed the space. Even the silence bent around her confidence.
"Beau-ti-fool," Cookie applauded, clapping lightly.
The girls flocked to Natalia as she stepped down from the stage. Felicity Lourdes, who had come to observe, joined in the applause. When she rose, she turned to Cookie and said, "I'd like her name to go first on the applicants for The Garden of Grace."
The hall fell silent. Every gaze turned toward Felicity in disbelief. Jennifer's breath hitched. She looked from Cookie to Felicity, then to Natalia.
"There's no need for the shock," came a sweet, elegant voice from behind them. "My niece is exceptionally fit to bring that title home."
All heads turned. In flawless poise, Tracy Donovan marched forward — pearl purse in hand, her dress hugging her like it was crafted by adoration itself.
"Miss Donovan," Felicity greeted her with a forced smile and exchanged a brief hug.
"Aunty!" Natalia squealed, rushing into Tracy's arms. "Thank you for coming!"
"I wouldn't miss this, darling."
Cookie turned uncertainly to Felicity. "Madame, I am sure Mees Jennifer eez only 'aving a bad day… but 'er name as number one, it was final, non?"
Felicity didn't answer. Tracy did.
"You must be Cookie," she said smoothly. "Amazing work you do, by the way." She paused, her gaze shifting toward Jennifer. "But as of this morning, you're looking at the largest shareholder of Veloura Models — and I've made that change. My niece has been here for quite some time, and I feel she's better suited for this."
Her smile glimmered with venom and mockery. "Besides, The Garden of Grace is no place for favors — and certainly no place for a bed warmer."
Jennifer shuddered. Her breath came hot against her chest, her vision blurring.
Then Tracy stepped closer, heels clicking like quiet threats. She stopped before Jennifer, a smug smile curving her lips.
"What are you going to do now?" she whispered. "Run to Vincent? Quit? Or find a way to sleep your way through this as well?" Her voice dropped lower, crueler. "A pity Felicity Lourdes isn't a man… or maybe you'd let her use a strap-on."
Tracy smirked and turned away.
"I have business to attend to, Felicity," she said, loud enough for all to hear. "But I trust everything will go as planned."
As planned?
Jennifer looked up at Felicity, searching her face for truth, for loyalty, for anything — but Felicity's expression was unreadable. Her throat burned as she fought back the tears, refusing to let them fall before the crowd.
The doors opened. William Conrad entered, calm and polished, his presence making a few hearts flutter.
He greeted Tracy first. They shared a brief kiss, and then Tracy turned, giving Jennifer one last look before holding William's arm possessively.
"You're as charming as ever," Felicity said to him, handing him a white envelope she had been carrying.
"I assume the contract has been signed?" William asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Signed and sealed, love," Tracy purred, tugging at his arm as she led him away. He tried, discreetly, to glance back at Jennifer — but Tracy's grip was firm, her smile victorious.
Jennifer wanted to disappear — to vanish into some quiet corner, or hide inside a restroom, anywhere far from the eyes that stripped her bare and painted her with their cruelty. But her ankle throbbed with pain; escape was impossible.
She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Was it okay to cry now? She had held herself together for so long. Maybe a few tears wouldn't destroy her.
Footsteps circled her, and then came the familiar, scornful voice.
"I thought she was going to put up a fight." Debra's high-pitched tone sliced through the air.
"She's never fought anyone in her life," Joy added with a laugh. "You think she'd start now?"
"Shhh, stop it, all of you," Natalia scolded sweetly. "That's rude, girls." She let the words linger, then added, "You can't blame her. All she ever knows is sleeping her way through anything."
Laughter erupted — harsh, cruel, echoing.
Jennifer covered her ears. This time, she couldn't hold the tears back.
"All of you, out!" Felicity's voice thundered from behind.
The girls froze, then scurried off.
Felicity looked at Jennifer — head buried, shoulders shaking — and sighed. She said nothing. Then she turned and quietly walked out.
***
The echo of laughter had long died down in the Veloura halls. The lights, once bright with the pulse of ambition, now glowed dull and tired. The day's practice had ended hours ago, yet the scent of perfume, makeup, and nerves lingered like ghosts.
Jennifer sat slumped against the mirrored wall, her ankle wrapped in a makeshift bandage, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Cassandra knelt beside her, whispering words that barely touched the edge of comfort. Her arm was around Jennifer's shoulders, warm but useless against the ache building in her chest.
"It's okay, Jen," Cassandra murmured, brushing back a strand of hair stuck to her wet cheek. "Don't let Natalia get to you. She's just—she's just jealous."
Jennifer shook her head, lips trembling. "She's not jealous. She's right. I—I tripped in front of everyone, Cass. I'm a joke."
"Tracy holds the reins of everything now, who's to say she won't kick me out?"
Her voice broke, and with it came a sob that ripped straight through her — the kind that left her chest hollow, her breath jagged.
Down the hall, Felicity watched for a moment longer than she meant to. She was no stranger to the way ambition could cut a person open. And though she had her own reasons to stay detached, something about Jennifer's quiet collapse gnawed at her. She took out her phone, thumb hovering over a number she hadn't plan on dialing.
Vincent.
She hesitated, then pressed call.
But when the line picked up, it wasn't Vincent's voice.
"Elena Moretti," came the smooth, cold tone.
Felicity froze for a moment before clearing her throat. "Ah—Mrs. Moretti? It's Felicity from Veloura Models. Jennifer's hurt herself. It looks like a sprain. She'll need someone to pick her up."
There was a pause, heavy and unreadable. Then—
"I'll be there," Elena said, and the line went dead.
The growl of the engine was the first thing Cassandra heard. A sleek black car pulled into the lot, gleaming under the streetlights like something that didn't belong in this world of overworked, underfed dreams.
Elena Moretti stepped out, tall and composed, her heels clicking with command. Her face, sculpted by elegance and years of holding her tongue, softened at nothing.
She found Jennifer hunched by the door, tears still wet on her cheeks. Cassandra rose immediately. "She's hurt—her ankle—"
"I can see that," Elena cut in, her voice as sharp as glass.
Her eyes swept over Jennifer — the trembling hands, the ruined makeup, the quiver of lips too used to swallowing words.
"This," Elena said, motioning at the sight before her, "is weakness."
Jennifer's eyes widened, fresh tears threatening to fall. Cassandra stepped forward, protective. "She's in pain, Mrs. Moretti—"
Elena turned to her with that calm, regal disdain that made lesser people step back without realizing why. "Pain is not an excuse. Pain is a mirror. It shows you who you are."
Then she looked back at Jennifer. "Get up."
Jennifer blinked, her breath catching. "I—my ankle—"
"I said, get up."
There was no shouting in Elena's voice, only a command layered in something unshakable. Cassandra hesitated but helped Jennifer rise. The moment she stood, her leg buckled. Elena caught her arm before she fell.
The contact lasted only a second, but it burned with something complex — not tenderness, not cruelty, but a fierce, restrained care.
"Come," Elena said quietly. "I'll take you home."
***
The drive was silent at first. Only the low hum of the car filled the space between them. The city lights passed like fleeting stars, each reflection catching Jennifer's tired eyes.
She stared out the window, ashamed of how small she felt. Elena's perfume — crisp, elegant, intimidating — filled the air.
"I didn't mean to fall," Jennifer finally whispered, her voice raw.
Elena's hands tightened on the wheel. "No one ever means to fall. The question is—how long do you plan on staying down?"
Jennifer said nothing.
When they reached the Moretti estate, Elena helped her inside without a word. She led her to the parlor, where light spilled softly from the chandelier. The older woman fetched a small kit and knelt — not gracefully, but efficiently — before Jennifer's injured ankle.
Jennifer stared down, speechless. "You don't have to—"
"I am not doing this for you," Elena said, cutting her off. "I'm doing this for my son."
Her hands were steady as she wrapped the bandage around Jennifer's ankle. "You love him, don't you?"
Jennifer nodded after a pause and barely audible she said "I do."
"Then stop crying."
Elena looked up, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "Tears are fine when they fall for something noble. But tears over petty words? Over competition? That is not love. That is weakness."
Jennifer's throat tightened. "You think I'm weak."
"I think," Elena said slowly, "that you have not yet decided what kind of woman you want to be."
She sat back, sighing softly. The exhaustion in her voice betrayed something more human beneath the steel.
"I behaved terribly the other night," she said after a pause. "I spoke out of anger. For that, I apologize."
Jennifer's eyes widened. "Mrs. Moretti—"
"But listen to me, Jennifer." Elena's tone softened, yet her words carried weight. "If you are going to accept the place beside my son, if you will carry his name, you must prove to me — to yourself — that you can stand tall even when the world claws at your throat."
Jennifer swallowed, silent.
Elena stood, folding her arms, her voice steady as a blade.
"Either you eat those words up like a dish," she said, her eyes fierce and glinting, "or you chew them into poison and spit them back. Your sins for theirs — pick one. But I will not consider a girl who does nothing but cry."
Her words hung in the air, sharp and alive.
Jennifer looked up at her, something shifting behind the tears — a spark, faint but real. The ache in her ankle was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. But in that ache, she felt something new — resolve.
Elena turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "You have a good heart," she said quietly. "Don't let the world turn it soft."
When she was gone, Jennifer sat alone, the bandage firm around her ankle, her hands still trembling — but this time, it wasn't from weakness.
It was from the quiet, dangerous promise forming deep inside her.
She wouldn't cry anymore.
She would rise.
***
Across town, that same night, Marcus Hale paced his office, the shadows from the desk lamp flickering across the piles of journals and files that littered the table. He twirled a pen between his fingers, eyes darting from one cryptic note to the next—dots he couldn't yet connect, waters he dared not stir. Something was happening in Beverly Hills, and for reasons he couldn't fathom, Vincent was at the very center of it.
With a frustrated snap, he emptied every drawer until his fingers closed around a small, worn card. One number—one man—could give him answers.
The phone line rang twice before a gravelly voice answered.
"Dempsey…"
"This is Marcus Hale. We need to talk." He didn't wait for a response, letting the weight of his words hang in the silence.
He ended the call, snatched his coat and hat, and stepped into the night. Somewhere out there, answers were waiting—but so was danger.