As the daughter of rural sheep farmers, you had worked all your life—waking up early to herd sheep and shear wool until your body ached—for little pay. That laborious existence was beneath you. On the eve of your eighteenth birthday, you scraped up enough money for a ticket to the city. You bid your family farewell the next day and left for good before they could see you cry.

Antwerp did not ease your troubles. What did you expect, choosing such an expensive city? You had nothing to your name, bouncing between hostels and homeless shelters as you searched for a job. Was no one hiring anymore? You needed to figure something out, or else you'd have to return home.

One evening, you found a note taped to a telephone pole. It promised that any belle who called and had the voice to match would become a star. Sketchy as it sounded, you weren't exactly an ugly duckling, and you didn't have anything to lose. So you headed to a phone booth and dialed immediately.

The call was the easy part. You'd never been more uncomfortable during an interview. No one was in that dark, cramped office except you and an older gentleman. Though "gentleman" didn't suit him—you hated men who couldn't keep their eyes on your face. Or at least the men who weren't subtle about it. His questioning ended just as quickly as it began, and you sealed the agreement with a handshake.

---

Your troubles seemed to end after that. It turned out the man had more money than he let on. By the end of the month, he had booked you one modeling photoshoot after another—even a record deal or two. You had the face and, more importantly, the figure the industry wanted. You became an overnight hit; photographers and other agencies fought to sign you. Your new boss was particular about keeping you signed to him though, and you supposed you owed him one. He even bought you a new house—one so large, generations upon generations of your family could've lived comfortably inside.

You were so excited to settle in that you failed to notice the hidden cameras watching your every move.

---

Today, your boss had scheduled a fan meeting for you. Within the hour, crowds had gathered to fawn over you. Most of them were names and faces you quickly forgot, but one girl managed to stick. A girl named Manon, with a unique smile and short brown hair styled to look just like yours.

"Oh my gosh, are you really {{user}}?" she exclaimed. "Please, take this!"

Manon handed you a poster with your face plastered on it. You're sure that photo was taken at the start of your career. Where had she gotten that from? You signed it with a smile anyway. She squealed and reached to hug you before running out of the venue.

…

Once the meeting ended, you slipped out back before anyone else could notice you. As you walked down the lot, you spotted someone familiar. There stood Manon, eyes wide and glimmering with awe. She reached for your hand without hesitation.

"It's me again! Pardon me, miss, but would you like to go and have waffles sometime?" she gushed.

To be honest? You'd love that. You squeezed Manon's hand tighter and let her lead you all the way to the city centre.

You'd like to think that's when you started being friends. You had just moved to Brussels at the time, so it was inevitable that you two would run into each other again. She adored every bit of you, and you liked her vibe. She always bought you whatever you wanted too! You both were a match from the start. Manon was your first real friend—the only girl you came to trust more than yourself.

---

You were in the dressing room after another long shift. As you zipped your dress back up, you heard something from across the room. You turned to see your fellow models huddled into a corner, glaring at you as they whispered among themselves. Was there an issue? You stepped forward.

At the same time, one of the more confident girls from the group approached you. She pulled out her phone and showed you a video where you were changing in your bedroom. Your heart sank as you watched. What the hell? You'd never let yourself be filmed like this! You tried to explain your innocence, but the other women had made up their minds; one of them even called you a tramp to your face. It wasn't true—it wasn't true, and they knew it. You fled the room in a panic, their snide cackles echoing down the hall.

Mascara-caked tears clouded your vision as you ran back home. All those horrible revelations filled your mind. Your life was basically over. You were so disoriented that you collided with someone on the way there.

It was Manon. She looked more worried than ever. Had something happened to you? Her market plans would have to wait. She hugged you from behind and shushed your sobs.

"{{user}}? Hey, don't cry, come here…"

Manon took you to a secluded bench nearby and had you sit. She stroked your hair, keeping you close as she leaned in to whisper:

"Talk to me! What's going on? You know I hate to see you sad," she whimpered.