MELISSA'S POV
"We're sorry we couldn't reach out to you earlier…"
That voice.
"…but after reviewing your portfolio, we all agreed — you're exactly the type of model we need."
I sat up in bed, phone pressed tight to my ear.
My heart was pounding.
"You have the look. The walk. The edge. Honestly? You've got the full package."
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.
"We'd like to meet you. In person. Soon. Our receptionist will give you all the details when you arrive. Thank you for picking up, Miss Brown."
Click.
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen.
For three seconds, I didn't breathe.
Then…
"AHHHHHHHHHH!"
I screamed into my pillow, kicked my legs like a teenager, and jumped out of bed, bouncing around my room.
They called.
They actually called.
I was not the screaming type.
Not even close.
But right now?
I felt like I was floating.
I threw myself back into bed, smiling into the darkness.
Tomorrow, I was going to walk into that building and show them exactly why I belonged there.
The next morning, I woke up early.
Like… before-my-alarm early.
I didn't even feel tired.
I opened my curtains. Grey sky. No sun. But it felt bright to me anyway.
I played music while I showered. Nothing slow — fast, feel-good stuff. I danced while brushing my teeth. Laughed while I dressed.
I stood in front of my closet in my towel and stared at my clothes like I was picking armor.
And I knew what to wear.
Black high-waisted trousers. White fitted top. A soft camel coat over my shoulders. It gave model. It gave expensive.
Then the hair.
I curled it slow, piece by piece.
Soft spirals. Bouncy. Clean. Pretty.
For makeup? Nothing wild. Just smooth skin, glowing cheeks, lashes that gave a little flutter, and a deep nude gloss.
I stood in the mirror and blinked at myself.
Power.
That's what it felt like.
I stepped into nude heels, grabbed my bag, and walked out.
The modeling agency was in a glass building in the heart of Manchester. Tall and Shiny.
Inside?
Quiet. Clean.
White floors. Silver desk. Big screens playing silent runway shows on the walls.
"Hi," I said as I stepped up to the front desk.
The receptionist, a young Black woman with box braids and the biggest smile I'd ever seen, looked up—and gasped.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Wait. Are you… Melissa Brown?"
I blinked. "Uh. Yeah."
"THE Melissa Brown? Hockey queen? Ice killer? The one who flipped that ref last year? The one that brought the trophy home this year?"
I fought a smile. "That was an accident."
"No, girl. That was a moment."
I laughed. "You watch hockey?"
"Are you joking? My whole family watches you. My dad cried when you made that final assist."
That made my heart warm.
"I didn't know I had this passionate fans," I said.
"You have a fan club. I run it."
I burst out laughing.
She stood, still smiling. "Come on. Marco's waiting. He's been pacing since 8am."
We took the elevator together.
She kept sneaking glances at me like I was Beyoncé.
"Can I just say," she said as we reached the top floor, "I love that you're a model and a hockey player. Like, why choose?"
"Exactly," I said.
The doors opened with a soft ding.
She led me down a wide hallway with framed magazine covers on both walls.
Then she stopped in front of a glass door.
"This is you."
She winked. "Kill it."
I stepped inside.
The office was bright and stylish — plants in the corners, velvet chairs, gold-rimmed desk.
And right behind that desk stood a tall, tan-skinned man in a pinstriped navy suit, silver rings on his fingers, and a voice that came out smooth and excited.
"Melissa!" he said, arms out. "Finally!"
I smiled. "Hi."
He came around the desk and offered a warm handshake.
"I'm Marco. Your manager."
"Nice to meet you."
"You're even better-looking in person," he said. "And taller."
"Thank you," I said, already liking him.
"Sit. Please. I've been waiting to meet you forever. Do you know how hard it is to find someone who can model and skate backwards at full speed?"
I smiled as I sat. "Is that a new industry requirement?"
"It is now."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Listen," he said seriously, "We've worked with a lot of models. Great faces. Great bodies. But no one has your story."
I stayed quiet, listening.
"You're powerful. You're graceful. You're smart. And you're real. People like you, Melissa. And the people that don't?" He smiled. "They're scared."
I raised an eyebrow. "Of me?"
"Of what you represent. A woman who doesn't fit into their little boxes."
I blinked.
"We have a campaign coming up," he continued. "It's a luxury athletic brand — big money, full spread, Europe-wide."
I didn't speak.
"You'd be one of three faces. The other two? Already established. You'd be the fresh face. The bold one. The one that says: 'Yes, I can wear heels and crush you on the ice.'"
"Wow," I said. "That's a lot."
He leaned back in his chair. "But I think you can handle it."
"So… this would be official?"
"If you say yes," he said, "we sign you this week. And then we make magic."
I smiled. "Let's talk."
Marco slid a folder across the desk.
"This is it," he said, eyes glowing. "The official contract."
I stared at it.
Thick paper. Bold print. My name in the corner.
He handed me a pen.
"No pressure," he added, smiling. "But also… a little pressure."
I laughed, but my fingers felt weirdly sweaty.
This was real.
No more dreaming. No more "maybe someday."
I picked up the pen.
Read through the lines.
"Everything looks clean," I said.
He nodded. "You're welcome to have your lawyer read it, of course—"
"I already did last night,the one you sent to my email."
His eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"
"I don't play with my future."
Marco grinned wide.
I signed.
When I finished, I pushed the folder back to him and leaned into the chair.
He tapped the edge of the paper. "That's it. You're official."
I smiled.
It wasn't big or loud.
But it was real.
"I'm proud of you," Marco said. "And we're just getting started."
"Feels like I just stepped into a different world."
He tilted his head. "You didn't step in. You belong here."
I looked at him.
"Thanks for seeing that."
"Are you kidding? I live to find girls like you."
I laughed softly.
Then he stood.
"There's someone I want you to meet."
I blinked. "Now?"
"Yes. You're already dressed like a queen. Let's not waste it."
"Who is it?"
He winked. "Come find out."
We walked down a different hallway.
No fancy office décor here — just photos taped to the walls. Some were rough edits, others were full campaigns.
I saw models I recognized. Covers I'd scrolled past online.
We turned the corner.
"Is this the studio?" I asked.
"Yep. This is where the magic happens."
He opened the door.
Cold air. Camera lights. A woman with a clipboard. Music playing low from a speaker.
Marco stepped inside first.
"Hey guys," he called. "I brought someone important."
The room buzzed.
I stepped in behind him.
The lights were bright. The air smelled like coffee and perfume.
A photographer turned around. A stylist waved.
Marco walked to the center.
"Melissa," he said, gesturing. "This is where you'll be working a lot. But first…"
He looked toward the left side of the studio.
"There's someone I think you should meet."
I followed his gaze.
And I froze.
Standing near the backdrop…
Familiar shape. Familiar hair. Familiar….wait!
No.
No. No. No.
My heart stopped for a second.
1. My stomach dropped.
"No," I whispered. "It can't be."