Louis sat on the edge of the pale grey sofa, tablet in hand, flipping through documents with his usual quiet efficiency the next day. He had relocated Ebony to a guest house in the city that would also act as the base of operations before they would move to France. Across from him, Ebony sat straighter than usual, fingers knotted in her lap. She was dressed simply in a navy blouse and slacks, when Louis brought the clothes he said, "basic enough not to get in the way of your face," and though she'd tried not to read into the comment, she found herself staring in the mirror that morning longer than usual.
She looked like she had a place in the world, she didn't feel ugly.
She looked blank.
"You're leaving for France in two months," Louis began, glancing up at her. "That's both more time than most girls get and less time than you'll feel you need."
Ebony blinked. "Two months?"
He nodded. "You're lucky the boss moves fast. He's pushed up your dossier, and we're working on your work visa through our contacts. But that means we have to move just as quickly."
Ebony swallowed. This was real. She was going to France.
"You'll need to begin learning French immediately. I've downloaded an intensive language app on this—" Louis handed her a sleek, new phone, its screen still wrapped in protective film. "There's a French tutor that will call you daily starting tomorrow. Her name is Camille, she's based in Marseille."
Ebony stared at the device in her hand. It felt heavier than it looked.
"This will also serve as your work phone," Louis continued. "Don't use it for nonsense. Don't give the number to people you don't trust."
Ebony nodded, would it not be nice if she had even a single person she would give her number too, she thought her fingers tightening around the phone.
"We'll begin your modelling portfolio next week. Before that, you need to be coached. Proper posture, walking, angles—basic poise. Your body doesn't just belong to you anymore," Louis said. "You're representing the Étoile de Verre Fashion House."
"The what house?" Ebony repeated softly.
"Antoine's brand is not too big but respected. He doesn't sign people lightly. You don't just wear the clothes. You become the message."
Ebony shifted in her seat. "And what's the message?"
Louis looked at her. "Strength that doesn't apologize. Lines that don't shrink. Presence that takes up space."
She looked away.
Louis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've spent too many years trying to disappear. I can see it in the way you walk, the way you fold your arms over your stomach, like you're ashamed of existing. But that has to stop. You walk into a room now, and the room adjusts to you, not the other way around."
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the faint hum of traffic beyond the apartment window.
Ebony finally looked at him. "I don't know how to be that girl."
"You don't have to know yet," Louis replied. "We'll build her."
After two days the guesthouse was swarming with people, one held a rack of textured dresses in cream and gold, another adjusted lighting on a tripod stand while speaking rapid-fire French into a headset.
Ebony stood near the centre, her hair freshly braided and her skin glowing from the light morning routine Louis had walked her through. The outfit she wore, tailored black slacks and a structured blouse, made her feel taller, anchored. She hadn't realized how much cheap fabric had weighed her down before.
Louis stood beside her, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose. He gave her a once-over and nodded slightly.
"We start today with posture. Not just for the runway, but for every room you enter, every moment someone might be watching. Which, by the way, is always."
Ebony inhaled.
"Chin up," Louis instructed. "Shoulders back. Spine long… but relaxed."
She adjusted, hesitated.
"You're not a soldier nor a sculpture. Be elegant, not stiff."
She tried again. Louis stepped around her, nudging her elbow here, tilting her chin there. His fingers were clinical, precise. "Good. Again. Walk."
She did.
"No, no," came a third voice, sharp, exasperated.
The stylist.
She was tall, reed-thin, and dressed entirely in black. Her angular bob cut made her look like every surface she stepped on was a runway. Her name was Sabine. Ebony had only heard it once, but it was the kind of name you remembered.
Sabine stalked toward them; a clipboard clutched under one arm. "This is who I was pulled from Paris for?" she said, switching back and forth between English and French. "I had two clients this week. Two. And instead, I'm flown continents away for someone who walks like a frightened lamb."
Ebony's ears burned.
"She doesn't even speak French," Sabine added, clearly not caring if Ebony understood. "Not a single word. What am I supposed to do with that?"
"She's learning," Louis said coolly.
"She'll need a miracle," Sabine snapped, glancing at Ebony. "Look at her, she won't even lift her head. How do I style someone whose spine might break if I breathe wrong?"
Ebony's throat tightened. She looked up instinctively and met Sabine's eyes. There was no cruelty in them, but also no warmth. Just judgment, clinical and cold.
"Change her," Sabine said, then turned sharply on her heel. "I'll work with the fabric. You work with the girl."
Louis let the silence hang for a beat too long before speaking.
"She's not wrong," he said gently, but not apologetically. "You can't let people like her decide who you are. But they will if you keep giving them permission."
Ebony blinked hard and looked at the curtain Sabine had disappeared behind. "I didn't give her permission."
"You did. Every time you slouched. Every time you apologized by not speaking. Every time you looked down." He stepped closer. "People like Sabine know power when they see it. You didn't show her any."
"I'm not like you," Ebony said, her voice quiet. "I don't know how to be sharp like that."
"You don't have to be sharp," Louis said. "You just have to stop being small."
"I'm trying," she muttered.
"I know," he said. "Stop trying to disappear. Stop trying to say sorry with your body. You are allowed to exist."
The words hit her chest like a blow. She has spent her whole life giving every person permission to make her small, she tried to occupy the smallest spaces herself. She never once figured she could stand tall, that she was allowed to stand tall. Today in this moment, instead of curling up like she might have in the past, Ebony straightened. She walked again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Louis clapped once, sharp and unexpected. "Better."
A stylist approached with a tablet, murmured something in French to Louis, and showed him a set of concept images. He glanced at Ebony. "You're on hair and fitting next. After lunch, you'll meet the photographer."
She nodded.
As the stylist led her toward a curtain partition, Louis called after her, "Ebony?"
She turned.
"You don't represent yourself anymore," he said. "You represent us. Don't let yourself shrink."
She nodded again, firmer this time.
As she stepped behind the curtain, a small part of her realized something she hadn't felt in years. She was excited.
The week blurred.
Early mornings started with French lessons; simple greetings, basic verbs, pronunciation drills led by a patient tutor who always called at the same time every day. By the third day, her mouth ached from unfamiliar shapes, and every "r" she tried to roll sounded like a child choking on a pebble. Still, she practiced, scribbling phrases in the notebook Louis had bought her alongside the new phone she was told to use for learning apps and quick messaging.
After French came posture drills with Louis in the long-mirrored corridor just off the wardrobe room. He was relentless.
"Chin up! not like that. You're not avoiding rain. You're walking through it like it's your spotlight."
Or: "Your hands. What are they doing? Do you want them? Then claim them. Don't let them hang like they're ashamed of you."
After that came fittings. Sabine was always there, clipboard in hand, never raising her voice but somehow making Ebony feel like she needed to apologize for existing.
"You cannot keep shrinking. The clothes are not meant to protect you. They are meant to announce you."
By the end of each day, Ebony collapsed into bed, muscles sore in places she didn't know she had. She fell asleep with French phrases running loops in her head, waking up sometimes muttering Je suis désolée without knowing why.
But she kept going.
Even when she stumbled.
Even when Sabine sighed audibly behind her.
Even when Louis made her do the same walk twenty times.
She knew she needed to do this, if she wanted to live a worthwhile life, she had to work on herself more than anything else.
And then came Friday. The day of the shoot.
They began at a rooftop in the city centre. The skyline sprawled in the background, glass buildings catching light like diamonds. Ebony wore a wide-leg cream suit and a silk scarf knotted at her neck. The colour contrasted beautifully with her skin tone and the sunrise gave a beautiful hue to her skin. Her hair was pulled back into a clean, low bun. Louis adjusted her collar one last time.
"Today isn't about being perfect," he said. "It's about showing what you're capable of. That includes falling, so don't panic if you slip. Own it."
The photographer, a wiry man named Henri, called out in French. Louis translated, gesturing broadly: "More chin. Less hand. Eyes to the horizon not the floor. Again."
She moved.
Tentative at first. Then steadier.
Henri didn't speak to her directly, but she could feel when she was doing something wrong by the sudden clacking pause of the camera. When she got it right, the clicks came fast and wild.
Still, it was hard.
By the second location, an old, sun-drenched train station, she was sweating under a heavy wool coat and leather gloves, legs sore from holding unnatural angles. Her lips felt stiff from trying to smirk, then not smirk, then smize, then whatever Sabine was mumbling under her breath.
"Relax your jaw," Louis said.
"I am relaxed," she snapped, then immediately regretted it.
But Louis only gave a short nod. "Good. Hold onto that fire."
The third and final shoot was in a narrow alley with graffiti art in vivid blues and oranges. Ebony wore a silver dress with metal accents that clinked softly as she walked. The air smelled of smoke and rain. Here, Henri didn't give much direction. He simply waited.
She leaned back against a peeling wall, one knee bent, arms crossed, and stared straight into the lens. The click came fast.
Then again.
And again.
By the end, she was breathless, sore, and felt hollowed out. But there was something electric in her blood. Something earned.
Later That Evening, Louis and Sabine sat at the long glass table in the studio office, Ebony's photos displayed across the screen. Hundreds of frames; some raw, others already lightly edited.
Sabine leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded.
"She has something," she admitted finally.
Louis said nothing, watching the way Sabine clicked through each photo.
"The angles are clean. The bone structure photographs well. She holds tension in her arms, but her neck is expressive. She knows how to use her eyes when she remembers not to duck behind them."
She paused at a frame from the alley shoot; Ebony, defiant and unflinching in silver.
"This one." Sabine pointed. "She looks mysterious. That's what the camera caught."
Then she clicked to another shot, a rooftop pose where Ebony looked slightly to the side, lips parted, posture tentative.
"But the rest?" She shrugged. "Still too much fear. You can't edit that out. Not consistently."
"She's not meant to be finished," Louis said quietly. "She's meant to begin."
Sabine didn't reply. She clicked through more photos in silence.
Then she sighed. "She'll need more than fittings and French. She'll need to believe she belongs."
After Sabine left, he finally had Antoine on video call. Louis sat at his desk, the glow of the laptop screen casting sharp angles across his face. On it, Antoine's expression remained composed, but the tightness around his mouth betrayed the scrutiny he was applying to every frame flickering across the shared screen.
A pause.
Antoine leaned back in his chair. "She has presence. When she forgets to be afraid." He clicked to another image. "But when she remembers, mon Dieu, it's like watching a shadow try to wear silk."
Louis didn't argue. He let Antoine swipe through the carousel of shots, Ebony on the rooftop, her face lit like morning; Ebony against graffiti, her stare burning through the lens; Ebony mid-step, caught between command and hesitation.
"She needs to know that she's not modelling for herself," Antoine said. "She's representing us now. The line. The house. The history. There is no space for uncertainty."
"She is getting better," Louis said.
"Not fast enough. I'm flying in for the new collection's shoot in two weeks. I need to see measurable improvement. If I'm to pair her with the Damon for the campaign, she must hold her own. Otherwise, we shelve her until she's ready." A beat. "Walk her through the photos. Make her see the difference between hiding and showing up. Confidence leaves footprints. You either have presence or you get edited out."
The call ended without ceremony.
Louis stared at the blank screen for a moment before exhaling slowly.
***
Ebony sat across from Louis in the screening room, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The space was dim, the large monitor humming quietly as a slideshow of her photos began to loop.
Louis didn't speak at first. He let the silence fill the space between them.
Then:
"Watch closely."
She did. Every shot. From each location.
"This is you, unsure," he said, pointing to a rooftop frame. Her arms were stiff, chin tilted too low. "See how you disappear, even with the skyline behind you?"
Another photo appeared. The alley. The silver dress.
"This is you, certain, even if only for a second. That girl demands to be seen."
Ebony nodded slowly, face unreadable.
"There's nothing wrong with being quiet," Louis said, voice softer now. "But you can't let the world think you're apologizing for being here."
She swallowed hard. "I just don't want to get it wrong."
"You will get it wrong. Many times. That's not the problem." He clicked to a different image, one where her eyes, though beautiful, looked like they were searching for an escape route. "But shrinking doesn't protect you. It erases you. And you're not here to be erased."
Ebony stared at the screen. The contrast was startling.
She hadn't realized how much her fear showed. How much it dulled the sharpness of what could have been.
The following two weeks, everything tightened.
Louis's training became especially demanding.
Mornings started with vocal exercises in French. Not just pronunciation now, but intonation, conversation, assertiveness. She was made to order pastries at the local café to build confidence interacting with people, answer questions without looking down, and introduce herself ten different ways until it felt natural.
Afternoons were physical: balance drills, posture practice, walking in heels over various surfaces. Louis brought in a dancer to help her loosen her spine, to teach her how to move with controlled grace rather than stiffness.
Evenings were visual.
She was made to pose. Again, and again. In front of mirrors, cameras, sometimes even Sabine, who rarely complimented, but did note that she was "no longer wilting like a thirsty plant."
There were moments Louis caught it; a tilt of the hip, a head turn with intention, a sentence spoken clearly and without apology.
The spark was there.
Still, Ebony was exhausted.
Looking back, for the first time in a while, Ebony ate three full meals a day; sometimes even more when Louis insisted she keep her strength up. The food was unfamiliar at first, light and fragrant, portioned with care, but it settled into her bones like something she'd always deserved. Her room, though modest in size, had a bed that cradled her body each night with softness she never knew she needed. No mosquitoes. No sagging foam. Just warmth, clean sheets, and silence that didn't feel oppressive.
Each night before bed, she would stretch out and stare at the ceiling, her muscles pulsing from hours of posing, walking, correcting, unlearning. Her back ached. Her feet throbbed. Her French was still broken. Sabine still eyed her like a cracked mannequin. But beneath the exhaustion, she would smile.
Because for the first time, she wasn't surviving, she was truly living.
The aches weren't punishment anymore, they were proof. Proof that she was working, pushing, building. Not just into what Antoine wanted her to be, but into someone who could finally hold her head up high. She was still learning to stand tall, still fumbling through the newness of a life that required her to take up space. But she was trying. And every morning she woke up and kept trying again.