Chapter 259
We arrived at a facility that looked more like a high-security research compound than a talent agency. Tall electrified fences hummed with low voltage. Cameras swiveled on every post, their lenses tracking the van’s movement with predatory precision. There were no dogs—just silent, uniformed guards with earpieces and biometric scanners.
I stepped out. The ground was muddy.
In the distance, I saw a group of people running drills. They were covered in sweat and mud, wearing identical gray tracksuits.
A woman stood near the entrance, holding a clipboard. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it tugged at her eyes, giving her a permanent look of surprise and disdain.
“You’re late,” she snapped, checking her watch. “I’m Manager Grace. And you must be the Princess.”
I didn’t apologize. I simply stared back. “I’m Skye.”
“I don’t care who you are,” Grace said. She blew a whistle. The sound pierced the air.
The trainees stopped running and jogged over, panting, faces flushed. They looked at me with a mix of curiosity and hostility. I wore a tailored trench coat and clean boots. They were coated in filth.
One girl—a stunning blonde with legs that went on for days—stepped forward. She looked me up and down and laughed loudly.
“Is this a joke?” she asked, her voice carrying over the wind. “Did she get lost on the way to a fashion show?”
Grace didn’t correct her. Instead, she addressed the group.
“Listen up, everyone. This is Skye Sterling. She’s a Special Insert candidate approved by Mr. Vance himself.”
The term “Special Insert” hung in the air like a foul smell. It meant I hadn’t auditioned. It meant I’d skipped the line. It meant I was the enemy.
I saw their glares harden. I saw the blonde girl—Whitney—whisper something to her friend, and they both sneered. Julian hadn’t just sent me to training. He’d thrown me into a shark tank with a cut on my leg.
I tightened my grip on my suitcase handle.
“Well?” Grace barked. “Don’t just stand there. Fall in.”
I stepped into the mud, ruining my boots instantly. Cold seeped through the leather.
Grace led me through the sterile white corridors of the dormitory building. It smelled of bleach and unwashed gym clothes.
R𝗲𝗌𝗉eсt 𝘵𝘩е o𝗋і𝗴і𝘯а𝗹 𝗰𝗈𝘯𝘵е𝗻𝗍 𝖿𝗿𝗼𝘮 𝗯е𝗅𝘯𝗼𝘷𝖾l𝘴.с𝗈𝗆
“Here’s how it works,” Grace said, her heels clicking with efficient precision. “We have classes ranked A through F. A is debut-ready. F is garbage. You are currently unranked, which defaults to F.”
“Understood,” I said.
We stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. It had a gold star on it.
“However,” Grace said, an amused smirk curling her lips, “Mr. Vance insisted you have… accommodations suitable for your station.”
She unlocked the door.
Inside, it wasn’t a dorm room with bunk beds. It was a suite. A king-sized bed. A private bathroom. A mini-fridge. A flat-screen TV.
I looked at Grace. “You’re putting me in here?”
“Orders,” Grace shrugged. “Enjoy your palace, Princess.”
She turned and walked away.
I stood in the doorway. Down the hall, the door to the common area was open. I could see the other trainees—about twenty of them—crammed into a room with bunk beds stacked three high. They were staring at me. Staring at my suite.
Whitney shoved her way to the front. She was flanked by a shorter girl with pink hair—Tiffany.
Whitney walked up to me. Tall, athletic, radiating the kind of confidence that came from being the best in the room for a long time.
.