“Privacy and modesty don’t really exist in the modeling world.”
My gaze flicks to her face in the mirror.
“You went to a lot of your mom’s gigs, huh?” I ask.
Her expression softens in a way I didn’t expect—fond, almost nostalgic.
“Yeah,” she says. “My parents didn’t want to be separated, and they were never the type to leave me home with a nanny while they jetted around the world. So I always went along. On the set of photo shoots. Backstage of fashion shows.” She smooths the moisturizer over her chest, drawing my eyes down.
“It helped when I took up modeling for a while, too. Not much room for modesty when you walk backstage, and three people start undressing you in the middle of a room with a hundred other people because you have about ninety seconds before you have to be in the next outfit, ready to walk again.”
My brows lift before I can stop them.
“You modeled too?”
She lifts her own brow at me in the mirror.
I let out a breath and shake my head once. “I mean—” I gesture at her, at the whole, completely unfair picture of her there. “Not that you couldn’t. Look at you.”
Her cheeks flush with the compliment, and she smiles, kind of shy.
“I’m just surprised,” I add, because it’s true. “It doesn’t seem like your thing. Why’d you stop?”
She shrugs, casually, and dips her fingers back into the tub.
“I guess I realized itwasn’treally my thing. I just thought it was because it was my mom’s thing, and I wanted to be just like her.” She rubs the cream into her hands, then props one foot onto the vanity to rub the moisturizer into her thigh. The towel slides down even more, and my mouth waters. She continues, unhurried and lost in memory, completely unaware of where my thoughts are. “It all looked so amazing and glamorous from the sidelines, but when you’re in it, it’s not quite so shiny.”
I stay quiet, letting her talk.
“The constant jet-setting,” she continues, “but when you’re modeling, it’s not just to sit on set and watch the glamour. It’s for work, and the schedule gets exhausting. All the fancy clothes are wonderful… and also pretty uncomfortable. The red carpets, all glammed up, camera flashes in your face while people shout personal questions at you.”
Her tone shifts, almost imperceptibly. Still calm. But tighter around the edges. I notice immediately.
She keeps rubbing the moisturizer in automatically.
“It’s a job,” she says, like she’s reminding herself as much as me. “And when you’re in it, you’re not this… untouchable thing people imagine. You’re a body someone is styling, posing, lighting. People adjust you without asking. They talk about you like you’re not standing there.”
I feel my shoulders go rigid.
She glances at herself in the mirror again, but her eyes aren’t really seeing her face. They’re somewhere else—backstage, maybe. Under those lights.
“And you get used to it,” she adds, softer. “You tell yourself it’s normal because everyone around you acts like it’s normal.”
I don’t interrupt. I just stand there listening, because if I move, I’ll interrupt the way she’s finally letting the truth out.
Elsa exhales slowly.
“Yeah, the jet-setting sounds glamorous,” she says, and a faint, humorless curve touches her mouth. “But it’s airports at five a.m. and sleeping on planes and barely eating, because when you’re wearing clothes someone else designed, it’s better not to eat than to eat something because it’s convenient. The clothes look amazing in photos, but half of them hurt. Pins. Tape. Shoes that make your toes go numb and you’re expected to smile like it’s effortless.”
She starts on her other leg, rubbing moisturizer in slow circles while she remembers.
“And then there’s the part nobody tells you about when you’re watching from the sidelines,” she continues. “The way people feel entitled to you. Not because they know you. Notbecause you’ve given them anything. Just because you exist and you’re… visible.”
My stomach drops.
“But it’s part of the job. It’s selling the clothes, and the body beneath it is what makes the clothes look good. And I dealt with it. I didn’t let it bother me.” She pauses and looks down at the tub for a second. “Until…”
“What is it?” I murmur.
