Zoe's POV
I held onto the cold metal rail, fingers curled tightly around it as if it were the only thing keeping me upright.
The rehearsal room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and polish—clean, sharp, almost medicinal. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors stretched across one wall, reflecting bodies in motion, limbs elongated, faces focused, some relaxed, others tense with effort. Sunlight filtered through the tall glass windows, diffused by sheer white curtains that fluttered softly each time the air-conditioning hummed to life. Somewhere in the background, low instrumental music played—slow, rhythmic, meant to calm the mind and steady the breath.
I inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled.
My palms slid along the rail as I leaned forward into a stretch, one leg extended behind me, toes grazing the floor. My muscles protested faintly—not painfully, just enough to remind me that I was here, present, alive in my body.
This was what models did, right?
Pilates. Yoga. Barre work.
