Chapter 17 #3
Ambria’s eyes softened as she turned back to me. “You did it,” she said, squeezing my arms gently. “You didn’t back out.”
“I’m s-s-scared of what’s going to happen. I… I ticced the whole way down that stage,” I whispered, ashamed. “They all saw it.” Fashion roadkill—move the hell over!”
I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. That one wasn’t rehearsed; that was my body betraying me.
“And you still looked better than all of them,” Ambria replied softly. “Don’t let them shrink you.”
But I didn’t feel brave or strong; I felt exposed, like I’d been cracked open in front of a thousand people and called beautiful for bleeding out.
The show had ended, the lights dimmed, stylists were packing up their kits, security stood idle near the exits, voices were quieter and the chaos was over.
I sat in a hard plastic chair near the makeup tables, my gown slightly wrinkled, my heels still on. The ring Ambria had given me earlier was warm on my finger. I rubbed it slowly with my thumb as if it could undo the day.
The tics had slowed—still there, but less forceful. My body was exhausted… my mind, worse.
I barely noticed the shadow that fell over me until I looked up.
Mr. Lansing.
He was one of the senior partners at the agency—clean-cut, cold-pressed, and always calculating. He wasn’t the face of the brand, but he was the one who made the calls behind the scenes. Budgets, reputations, contracts—he handled the machine that kept people like me either booked… or erased.
Mr. Lansing was rarely unkind… but that didn’t make him kind either. He was all business—polite on the surface, ruthless underneath.
The kind of man who smiles while telling you you’re no longer valuable.
“Naji.”
I stood slowly. “Y-Yes, sir?”
His face didn’t shift. No smile. No warmth.
“That display on the runway was… unprofessional. Disruptive. Embarrassing, to be frank.”
My stomach dropped.
“I understand your condition,” he added quickly, like a disclaimer. “We’ve tried to be accommodating. But today proved it’s simply… beyond that. It distracts from the brand… from the image we work so hard to maintain.”
I couldn’t speak.
“So,” he continued, with that same smooth, practiced cruelty, “unfortunately, we’ll no longer be working with you moving forward.”
The words stung. But the way he said them—so dismissive, so casual—cut deeper than anything else.
“You’re—you're firing me?!” I snapped, my voice rising uncontrollably.
My arms flung outward as another tic rolled through me, that one harsh and sudden.
“You… you mean to tell me I get dragged on stage k-k-knowing I didn’t have my damn meds—knowing I was s-s-sabotaged—and you’re firing me?!”
He blinked once, unmoved.
I could feel the outburst coming like a wave I couldn’t stop. I hated when it mixed with my anger—because people always assumed it was just attitude.
“You stiff-faced fat fuck! Y-You wouldn't l-last five seconds in my skin, but you get to sit there in your o-oversized suit talking about i-image?”
My body jolted again, and I let out a harsh noise—half growl, half sob.
“And that,” he said, smooth as ever, “is exactly the kind of behavior that reinforces this decision.”
I stared at him, trembling.
Not from fear or rage… but from pain and the betrayal of a system that had never once felt safe.
Mr. Lansing buttoned his blazer like the conversation was done and firing someone was just a checkbox to tick off.
“HR will be in touch,” he said blandly. “They’ll handle the paperwork, your release forms, and the final payout of any remaining balances owed. You’ll also receive a confidentiality clause, which we expect you to honor regarding today’s… incident.”
His eyes flicked to me briefly. Not with empathy… just control. Like I was a mess, he was already erasing.
“All agency equipment, badges, and wardrobe items must be returned by the end of the week.”
Then he turned and walked away leaving me standing there, in my heels, gown, and pain.
And just like that… it was over. All the work. All the nights I pushed through panic. All the times I took the hits and stayed silent. The rehearsals, the ridicule, the restraint. All of it—wiped away in one clean sentence.
I sat back down.
Not crying.
Not screaming.
Just still.
Just stunned.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror across from me.
My makeup? Flawless.
My gown? Perfect.
My hair? Sleek and sculpted.
But inside? I was unraveling.
I snapped out of the memory, wiping my cheek before I realized I was crying.
I looked down at the ring on my finger—Ambria’s gift, my tiny anchor in a world too loud and too cruel. I stared at it, turning it slowly. The pink stone shimmered faintly in the light, the same as it had that night.
I never told Ambria how much that moment meant to me. How much that one small act of kindness rewired my shame.
I had watched Ambria burn so brightly in a world that demanded women shrink. And now she was gone. Gone because she tried too hard to stay in that world. Starved herself of food, rest, and peace—trying to be what the industry wanted.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
People go, but how they leave always stays.
“I… I miss you,” I whimpered aloud, phone still resting in my lap. “Every damn day.”
I leaned back against the headboard, closed my eyes, and let the memory play again. That time… slower… softer.
Maybe one day I’d tell my story. Maybe one day I’d build something that made space for girls like me and Ambria.
Girls who moved differently. Girls who cracked under pressure but still showed up anyway.
Girls who weren’t afraid to take up space, even when the world begged them to vanish. Yeah.. one day.