The next morning at the Johnsons' company came faster than my nerves could settle. From the moment I stepped into the studio, my mind replayed every word of the speech I had memorized the night before—my modeling speech for the presentation of the new Johnsons project.
I whispered the lines to myself,
Johnson's company is filled with many products they deal with and high class at that but I am to deal with a product on body lotion that they just lunched.
I paced around, repeated them again, and imagined the moment I would walk the red carpet. I could almost see the crowd, the flashing lights, the cameras snapping, the way I would glide forward with elegance and confidence.
The speech itself wasn't difficult. The real challenge was the poise, the delivery, the model-like composure Miss Clara kept drilling into me.
She was patient but firm, stopping me every time my shoulders dropped too low or my chin tilted too shyly downward.
"Chantel," she called suddenly, snapping me out of my daydream. "You have to recite those words now. Not like a shy girl. Not like a small person . As a model. The model you are."
I nodded, inhaled deeply, then rose to my feet.
And Ofcourse I still have those steps on me:
Mrs Johnson steps:
Shoulders back.
Chin level.
Eyes forward.
Walk gracefully, as if the floor belongs to you.
Then speak with the natural confidence of someone who knows her worth.
I began:
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the unveiling of Johnsons' newest innovation—The CrystalSkin Radiance Formula. A product created for every skin type, every shade, and every woman who deserves to feel beautiful in her own skin."
My voice grew steadier as I continued.
"This formula is built on years of research, designed to hydrate deeply, brighten naturally, and protect flawlessly. The Johnsons brand is not just about beauty—it is about confidence, elegance, and strength. And today, we are proud to share this gift with the world."
I completed the speech with the gesture Clara taught me and stopped.
Miss Clara stared at me—surprised, impressed, almost stunned.
"You know what, Miss Chantel…" she said slowly. "Out of the many models we've trained and worked with here, you are one of the best. Quick to learn, composed, elegant… You are a natural."
Her words warmed my heart.
No one had ever praised me that way before.
"I think we're good now," she added, smiling. "You can leave. You did very well."
I thanked her with a small bow, my heart swelling with pride, and left the studio.
My steps were light—almost too light—as I walked straight to Mr. Thompson's office.
He looked up when I entered, and the usual small smile curved on his lips.
"I can see you're done already," he said.
"Yes, sir. I'm done," I answered quietly.
He gestured for me to sit.
I obeyed, sitting carefully, my hands resting on my lap, my eyes lowered. My heart was beating too loudly. I wasn't staring at him—I couldn't. His gaze felt like sunlight: warm but intimidating.
He studied me for a few seconds, then finally asked a question I never expected:
He smiled…still fixed his eyes on me…
"Chant… are you done with school?"
I felt my heart stop.
He had never asked me anything personal before.
Not my interests.
Not my struggles.
Nothing.
He had always been distant and cold—too busy, too unreachable.
But now… he asked about me.
For a moment, I felt butterflies inside me—not because I was in love with him, but because for once, he showed care. A small drop of concern. Something I had secretly wished for since childhood.
"No, sir," I said softly. "I… I am still in high school. I quit after Mrs. Johnson died. She was the one sponsoring me."
His eyes widened.
"You quit school after my mother died?" he repeated, shock in his voice. "And why didn't you tell me you were still studying? I never knew you were attending school all this while living with us."
I swallowed.
He wouldn't know.
He never asked.
He was always too wrapped up in work, in grief, in his complicated life… and in that woman he called his girlfriend—the demon of the house.
"I'm sorry, sir," I said politely. "I thought you knew. I didn't want to disturb you."
He shook his head slowly.
"I never knew. And my mom never mentioned it either…"
He sighed deeply.
"Oh no… I really look like a bad person now," he said with genuine disappointment.
The guilt in his voice surprised me. My chest tightened.
"No, sir… not that," I whispered. "It was my fault. I should have told you."
I looked at him discreetly. This—this moment—was the longest conversation we had ever shared since I moved into their house at age twelve.
Nine years.
Nine years of silence, distance, formal greetings, and nothing more.
And now… we were talking. Really talking.
He asked gently, "So what's your plan now?"
I tried to breathe normally.
"I… I don't know yet," I admitted. "I haven't thought about it since I stopped."
"Well," he said, his voice firm, "I want you to go back to school. After this project, you will continue from where you stopped. Is that clear?"
His tone was serious—almost commanding—but filled with unexpected warmth.
I nodded.
"Okay… I will."
A moment passed.
He stared at me again, softer this time.
Then suddenly he said, "I… I want you to keep me company today. I don't want you to go home yet. Or do you have something to do at home?"
Something inside me trembled.
Home?
To that woman?
To silence?
To loneliness?
No.
I didn't want to go.
Not when he was speaking to me like this.
Not when he finally saw me.i thought in my mind.
So I nodded again.
He watched me, eyes steady and unreadable.
"Good," he said quietly.
He leaned back in his chair.
His voice softened.
"You know… my mother liked you a lot," he said. "She spoke about you all the time. Even though I didn't always listen. She really said so many things—kind things—about you. I think I've forgotten half of them."
My eyes stung immediately.
"She never treated you like a maid," he continued. "Sometimes… she even scolded me for sending you too many errands."
A tiny tear escaped the corner of my eye, but I wiped it quickly.
Mrs. Johnson wasn't just a mother figure.
She was… everything.
My shelter.
My guide.
My second mother.
My miracle.
Before I could hold myself together, I saw something I never expected:
Mr. Thompson… wiping tears from his eyes with a handkerchief.
I froze.
The memory of his breakdown at the burial flashed painfully in my mind. Seeing him cry again—this strong, composed, intimidating man—broke something inside me.
I spoke before I realized it.
"Sir… it's okay," I whispered. "Everything that happens has a reason."
He nodded slowly, breathing deeply.
"Yes… you're right," he said. "But in all… it's good."
He looked at me again with a faint smile.
"So Chant… don't feel sad about the way I may have treated you, or the way my girlfriend treated you. Don't feel disappointed."
I smiled back gently.
"You have always been good to me, sir. And I will always be grateful."
He nodded again, still staring at me.
His phone rang suddenly.
He picked it up.
And I sat quietly, my head lowered, my heart racing.
Not from fear.
Not from nerves.
But from the strange truth that something was changing.
Something between us.
Something I didn't yet understand.