Chapter 4: Ride into the Spotlight
I stood like a mannequin, wide-eyed and rigid, as the camera shutters began their symphony.
“Are you planning to stand there all day or maybe pose, sweetheart?” a sharp voice barked. It belonged to the lead photographer—a wiry man in all black with zero patience and a megaphone of a voice.
Across the studio, Jojo Lopez, star model and walking intimidation, was already striking fierce poses with surgical precision. Her expression could slice steel. I watched her lean back, arms curled behind her head, neck extended like a swan. It was calculated, dramatic—and kind of stunning.
So, I copied her.
Except I smiled. A real one. A too real one, probably.
“You’re never fully dressed without a smile,” Mom always said. And since I had no idea what I was doing, I figured channeling Mom was a better option than collapsing from anxiety.
Click-click-click.
“Perfect!” a voice shouted. “That smile—keep that!”
I shifted into another pose, more awkwardly than gracefully, but the camera flashes kept going, as if I knew what I was doing. I didn’t. But the adrenaline was making me look like I did. Each click felt like permission to be bold. I tucked one hand at my hip, did the over-the-shoulder glance Jojo just nailed, and even tried the arm-lift pose.
More flashes. More praise.
Then finally—mercifully—the shoot ended.
===
The contract discussion happened right after. A calm rep from HR walked me through the terms, all of which felt… surreal. The money was more than fair. Enough to get us out of the hole. Enough to breathe.
I signed it with a trembling hand.
With no more shoots scheduled for the day, I left the Pink Moda building still half-floating in disbelief. My legs carried me toward the nearest bus stop—I couldn’t afford a cab, and the weather wasn’t too bad. The sun was high, the city buzzing.
That’s when a white motorcycle rolled up beside me like something out of a commercial. I looked over, heart jumping.
“Jackson?” I blinked.
“Need a ride?” he asked, holding out a helmet with a playful grin.
“Oh—I’m fine. Really,” I said. “We just met.”
“Exactly why I’m trying to impress you,” he quipped. “Come on. Heat like this isn’t good for future icons. Let me rescue your pores.”
I stared at him, stunned.
Then I took the helmet.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, strapping it on.
“Where to?”
“North side.”
“Hold tight.”
The moment the bike surged forward, a rush of air swept over me, sending my curls flying. I clung to him, heart thudding—not just from the speed, but from the surrealness of it all. The city blurred into color and motion. My thoughts, however, refused to calm.
Rent. Two months overdue.
Landlady’s warning: two weeks, or we’re out.
I couldn’t afford failure.
Jackson eased the bike to a stop in front of my house, dust kicking up as the wheels stilled.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, dismounting carefully.
“Helmet?” he said, tapping his own head.
“Oh! Sorry!” I fumbled it off, cheeks heating. “Here.”
He accepted it with a wink. “Bye bye, sugar plum.”
I stood there, stunned. Sugar plum?
===
“Mum, I’m home!” I shouted as I entered.
“How was it?” Her voice floated from her bedroom.
I burst in and nearly tackled her in a hug. “I got the job!”
She gasped, eyes brightening. “You did?”
“We’re going to be okay, Mum. I swear, everything’s going to change.”
We danced in a clumsy little circle, laughter echoing in the room. She smelled like lavender and warmth and resilience.
“Tell me everything. The people? Were they kind?”
“Most of them, yes. Well—except one.” My voice dropped. “The CEO. He’s a nightmare.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” she said knowingly.
“But the money’s good. Really good. We’re going to catch up on rent. Maybe even buy fresh bread instead of the day-old one.”
She laughed and hugged me again. “I told you, didn’t I? We’d find a way.”
“You did, Mum. You really did.”
===
Later that evening, Chloe’s voice rang through the phone like a trumpet blast.
“YOU. ARE. A. STAR.”
“Chloe, you’re a genius,” I gushed. “You saved me.”
“What happened? Don’t make me beg!”
“I got hired. Signed the contract. First photoshoot’s already done. They even liked me.”
“I TOLD YOU!” she squealed. “This calls for celebration!”
“I mean, is it really necessary?”
“Yes. No buts. You’re coming over at five. I’ve got plans.”
I sighed, smiling. “Okay. Fine. You win.”
“You love me.”
“Desperately.”
We hung up, but my phone buzzed almost instantly again—this time with an unknown number.
I hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”
“Am I speaking with Miss Marla Quinn?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Margaret from Pink Moda. You may want to sit down.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Well, the photos from your shoot today were released almost immediately. And, um… you're in Hollywood Fashion Magazine’s top feature.”
I froze. “I—I didn’t apply for anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Today’s photos are all over the media. If you check the headlines, they say: WHO’S THIS NEW FACE?”
Silence.
“Miss Quinn, you’re officially trending.”
I swallowed.
“Famous?”
“Darling,” she said brightly, “you're not just famous—you’re on fire.”
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