I flinched.
The words hit harder than a slap.
"You were supposed to be preparing for New York," she hissed. "Your agent finally got you the Victoria’s Secret gig and you show up looking like a failure."
The blood drained from my face.
The Victoria’s Secret show. The dream I had fought for since I was fourteen.
I should have been thrilled.
Instead, all I felt was dread.
"Gym," Mom barked, grabbing my arm. "Now."
---
The next week was torture.
5 AM wakeups.
Back-to-back workouts until my muscles screamed.
No food. No rest. No mercy.
Every time I slowed down, every time I begged for water or a break, she hissed:
"Ugly girls don’t get angel wings, Brittany."
By Friday, I was a shell.
Thin enough. Perfect enough. Empty enough.
Exactly how she wanted me.
Exactly how I hated myself.
---
The flight to New York was miserable.
I sat curled against the window, stomach cramping with hunger.
A flight attendant smiled and offered me warm cookies, but I waved them away, bile rising in my throat.
I opened my phone and stared at Jasper’s texts:
> You’re enough.
Don’t let them take you apart again.
But it was too late.
They already had.
---
Backstage at the Victoria’s Secret show was a hurricane.
