Chapter Text
You had woken up in your New York City apartment, head still thumping from the night before. The ache sat heavy behind your eyes, pulsing with your heartbeat. It was a dull reminder that you took it too far again. You always do. You don’t remember how much you had to drink. All you remember is bright flashes, sticky countertops, and music that was too loud. You knew it was a lot. It always was.
This had become your routine. You couldn't recall the last time you hadn’t woken up hungover, the last time your mornings didn't start with regret curling in your stomach, nausea that wouldn’t go away. You lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, letting the noise in your head settle, until there was no noise at all. You knew standing up, or moving too fast would make it worse. Your apartment was a mess. Empty bottles crowded the coffee table, some were tipped over, some still half-full. The pill bottles sat on the counter in neat little clusters, labels long ripped off, caps missing from some. Magazines were scattered across the floor, your face on more than one cover, glossy and perfect. A reflection of the false life you were living. You stepped around them not once making eye contact.
You didn’t have time to clean. Or maybe thats what you keep telling yourself, it didnt feel important enough to matter. Between shoots, runways, fittings and interviews, your days blurred together into one long never ending hell. Interviews were the worst part. You hated them with a special kind of resentment, the way strangers thought they were entitled to your thoughts just because they knew your name, saw you grow up in front of their eyes. The questions were always the same, no matter what, all disguised as something new, but you knew that wasn't the truth.
“What inspires you?”” How do you handle the pressure?”And the most dreaded one of all, “What advice would you give to the young girls who look up to you.” That one always stuck with you, why would anyone want to follow down your footsteps. You’d learned how to answer without answering. Smile, deflect, and say something press worthy, but not something that would get you in trouble. At least, that used to be the goal. Why did people even care what you had to say. You had been in the public eye long enough to know the answer. They didnt actually care, they cared about the spectacle. They cared about watching you teeter on the edge.
And then there's the headlines. God the headlines always gave you a good laugh. “Good girl gone bad”. You hated but loved that you gave them something to talk about, you knew it made them feel better about their own lobes. You were entertainment, and entertainment is disposable, and most of all, it's replaceable.
That was an issue for another day.
Your phone buzzed somewhere on the bed, the sound alarming you at first. You reached for it slowly, squinting at the screen. No missed calls. That was new, usually by now your agent was blowing up your phone. And there it was, 500+ mentions, tags, and articles you hadn’t opened yet. You didn’t bother opening them, you knew what they said.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up finally, the room tilting briefly before settling back into place.
You caught your reflection in the mirror by the door, God you looked a mess. Messy hair, smudged eyeliner and makeup, eyes that were starting to reflect the dark circles underneath. You looked like yourself. Or at least the version of yourself that everyone recognized.
You grabbed a glass from the counter and filled it with water, you swallowed down a couple pills, without thinking too hard about which ones they were. You knew your limits. You always had. That’s what you liked about pills, they were easy, quiet, and most of all not noticeable. You pressed your palms into the counter and took a deep breath in, steadying yourself. You had places to be today. You had a fitting in an hour and a runway rehearsal in 4. You couldn’t afford to slow down, couldn’t afford to slip up. Whatever people were saying, whatever was waiting for you online, you’d deal with it when you had time. For now, you have to get dressed.
You walked over to the bathroom, you took off the makeup from the night before. You took a long shower, and started to get dressed. Your outfit of choice usually consisted of some light wash baggy jeans, a slightly loose tank top, an oversized crew neck, and sunglasses. You always wore sunglasses even though you didn't need them. Everything you wore had become sort of a uniform at this point, it was easy to put on and most importantly didn't make you noticeable to the public eye.
You walked past the mirror again to put on some shoes. You paused this time, studying the version of yourself staring back. The thought quickly left your mind as you remembered the time. Shit, you were going to be late. You grabbed your bag and headed out. The elevator ride down was quiet, broken only by the hum of all the people waking up, and exiting the building to start their days.
The one thing you loved about the city was how fast it moved, no one had time to glance or stare, everyone always had somewhere to be. Taxis cut too close to the curb, people brushed past you without apology, the smell of coffee and cigarettes filled the air. You got into the car waiting outside for you, and headed off.
Your phone buzzed again. You checked it this time. A text from your agent, short and sweet.
Pepper: Call me when you’re awake.
You scoffed quietly to yourself. As if you hadn’t been awake for hours, and on your way to work. You didn't respond. Not yet. You let her wait. Pepper always had a way of brining your mood down. Always sooo serious.
The fitting was downtown, in a studio you’d been to more times than you could count. Same white walls. Same racks of clothes that changed every season. The assistant Barry looked up when you walked in.
“You're late,” she said.
You checked the time on your phone. You weren’t, you were actually 5 minutes early, and for you that was a lot.
“Am I?” you replied lightly, already taking off your crew neck.
She didn't argue. Just handed you a clipboard and pointed toward the dressing rooms. You scanned the call sheet out of habit, eyes reading over names, and brands, filing them away. This was muscle memory at this point. This was easy. Inside the dressing room, you closed the door and leaned back against it for a moment, eyes shut. The quite pressed in, thick and heavy. You counted your breaths until the buzzing in your head dulled down.
You were good at this part. This is what you were born to do, and as much as you hated admitting it, when you were in front of that camera, you loved every single eye on you, you loved the praise, the attention, it was addicting.
The clothes were beautiful. They always were. Structured, elegant, expensive. You slipped into them carefully letting the fabric fall where it wanted to. Your body knew what to do, even if sometimes you didn't know why. When you stepped back out, the stylist circled you slowly, tugging here, pinching there. She was new, she didn't speak much. The other ones didn’t either. They treated you like you were valuable, that you couldn’t deny.
”Turn,” she said.
You did.
“Again.”
You complied, your expression remaining neutral, and your posture perfect. You knew that whatever you had going on outside of this room didnt matter right now. Under the lights, you were still worth something, still someone. That thought always carried you further than it should have, you had been saying that to yourself since you were 17. Your phone buzzed again while you were changing out of the final look. This time, it rang.
You stared at the screen for a long moment before answering.
“What?” You said, voice flat.
There was a pause. You could practically hear pepper choosing her words.
“We need to talk,” Pepper said.
You rolled your eyes. “You already said that.”
“Y/n, this is serious.” She said we had a bit of empathy in her voice.
You laughed softly, more breath than sound. “It’s always serious pepper, what did I do this time?”
She sighed, and something in that sound made your chest tighten despite yourself. “There are… concerns y/n.” God not this again, you thought to yourself. Of course there were. She talked while you stared at the floor, nodding along even though she couldn’t see you, it was out of habit. She was going on about ongoing patterns, brands are nervous. She mentioned videos, photos, and articles you hadn’t heard of yet.
And then it came.
“Im dropping you” she said, again with that same empathetic voice you had been hearing since you turned 19.
“You’re what,” you reply.
“Im dropping you,” Pepper repeated, slower this time, like saying it again might make it land softer. It doesn’t of course. “I can't represent you anymore.” You let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except there's nothing funny about it. Your fingers tighten around the phone, nails pressing so hard into your palm, they might bleed.
“Yes,” she answers. No hesitation. No backtracking. “Look y/n, brands are pulling out, PR teams are scared to even come close to this. I’ve tried to manage it, I really had, but its gone past what I can control.” You stare at the Floor of the dressing room, at the faint scuff marks on the white tile. Someone knocks lightly on the door down the hall, asking if the next look is ready. That’s when you’re reminded that the world doesn’t stop, just because yours is ending.
“So that's it? You ask. “Just like that?”
”This isnt personal,” Pepper says, and you almost laugh again. Almost. “It’s business y/n, you know how this industry works.” Yeah. You do. You’ve known since you were fourteen, since the first time an adult looked at you and saw potential instead of a kid. You’ve known every time someone smiled at you with dollar signs in their eyes and called it an opportunity.
“You’ve become… difficult,” she adds, quieter, like she almost didn’t want you to hear. But there it is. Those goddamn words, the words you’ve heard for the past 4 years. The words sit heavy in your chest, too familiar, and ugly.
“I’m still booked for the rest of the week,” you say, not really asking.
“Yes,” Pepper replies. “Those will be honored. After that.. you’re on your own, I'm sorry” she says, and this time you actually believe her empathetic tone.
You don't respond. There’s nothing left to say that would crack something open. The call ends a second later, clean and final. For a moment, you just stand there in the dressing room, surrounded by clothes that cost more than your first apartment, listening to the muffled sounds outside the door. Laughter, fabric rustling and someone calling your name.
You swallow hard and step back into the hallway like nothing ever happened. You finish the fitting. You pose. You turn. You hold still while hands adjust fabric on your body like you’re a mannequin instead of a person. You smile when someone compliments the outfit. You nod when they thank you for being “easy to work with today.”
Easy. That’s almost funny.
By the time you leave the studio, your phone is already blowing up again. At first you think it’s Pepper calling back. It isn’t. It’s emails, texts, missed calls from numbers you dont recognize. Agencies. Managers. Assistants “reaching out on behalf of.” Your name is moving, fast, faster than it ever did when things were good. You sit in the back of the car and scroll, numb. You close your eyes and drop the phone into your lap. Of course they’re calling. You’re a big face. A recognizable one. A mess, sure, but a profitable mess. People love a fall almost as much as they love a rise. Maybe even more.
Your phone vibrates again.
Another offer.
Then another.
Agencies you’ve heard of. Ones you haven’t. A few that would’ve killed to have you six months ago suddenly are acting like this was fate, like they always believed in you. You don’t answer any of them. The car pulls up outside your apartment, and for the first time all day, the quiet feels heavy instead of relieving. You step inside and let the door shut behind you, locking out the noise. Your apartment is still a mess. It looks worse now somehow, maybe your fully sober state is making you realize just how much of a shithole you’re living in.
You drop your bag by the door and slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled loosely to your chest.
You’ve been in the public eye since you were fourteen. Old enough to be admired, old enough to be critiqed, old enough to be blacked when things go wrong. Now you’re twenty two sitting alone in your apartment, surrounded by proof of a life that looks better from the outside. You don't cry, you don't even drink. You're just there, staring at your phone, and wonder how many people are watching to see what you do next.
You eventually move from the floor to your bed, you don’t feel anything. You just wonder what is gonna happen to you, and you hang on to that thought until you eventually drift off to sleep.
—————-
In the morning your name trends again.
You order food you dont really want and barely touch it when it arrives. The pills and the bottles are sitting on the counter of the kitchen, unmoved. You keep glancing at them, not because you want them, just because your playing this game, how long you can go without them before you break.
Your head hurts, but not like yesterday. This is a quieter ache, dull and manageable. You check your phone. Thirty-seven missed messages. Four voicemails.
You dont listen to any of them. You shower, dress, move through your routine like you're practicing how to be a person. You sit at the bay window in your apartment staring out at the city. It looks the same as always, indifferent. You wonder how many people are reading about you over their morning coffee, shaking their heads.
Your phone rings.
Unknown number.
You pause.
Your heart jumps in a way it hasnt all morning. You let it ring once. Twice. On the third ring, you answer.
“Hello?” You say, voice raspy from not talking all day
“This is Wanda Maximoff.”
The name lands heavy, and then something else flickers underneath it. Not fear, nor I dread. No, it was something else. Interest.
You straighten without realizing it, fingers tightening around the phone. “I’m calling in reference to your current availability,” she says, calm and precise. There’s a slight warmth to her voice. “My company is reviewing potential additions.” Your pulse picks up.
You think about being eighteen. About sitting in a conference room that smelled like clean paper and perfume, knees crossed too tightly, trying to look too eager. You remember the way you’d rehearsed answers in your head, convinced that this was it, that if you got into Scarlett fashion, you'd finally be untouchable. Then you remember the polite rejection. Too young, too much attention too soon, come back later, try again next year.
You never did. At least not formally. Pride got in your way.
Now, four years later, your name is everywhere for all the wrong reasons, and somehow, this is when they call. Her voice cuts through your thoughts, reminding you that you are on the phone. “We’re aware you’ve received other offers,” Wanda continues. That isn't relevant to us.”
Something warm curls low in your chest at her words. You don't say anything.
“Our interest is specific,” she says. “And conditional.”
“If you’re willing,” Wanda goes on, “we’d like you to come in for a meeting. No press. No announcements. Just a conversation.”
You listen to her words. Your mind starts to wander, you picture the building. the offices. The agency everyone talks about about in hushed voices. Scarlett fashion doesn’t just manage models, it creates them.
You wanted that once. Badly
“And if I say no?” You ask, because you need to hear the answer
“Then we proceed without you,” Wanda replies quickly, he tone blank.
You almost smile.
She gives you a time. And the address, but you’ve never forgotten it. “I expect professionalism, ms y/n,” she adds. “That includes discretion.”
Before you even get a chance to ask what that means, the call ends.
You stand there for a moment, phone still in your hand, the apartment unnaturally quiet around you. Your phone lights up again with another offer. You dont open any of them. Instead, you sit down on the edge of the bed and let the feeling settle. Its excitement. You hate that its there, hate how alive it makes you feel. You hate that even after everything, this is still the one thing that matters.
———————
You don't drink much that night, but you still drink. You pour one drink, smaller than usual, swallow it slowly, you feel the taste of it burning down your throat. You stand in the kitchen staring out the window while the city moves without you. You say one is enough, but it truly never is.
Sleep comes late that night. You wake up more than once, heart racing for no clear reason mind looping through half formed thoughts that you refuse to follow all the way down. Morning comes, your head hurts.
The headache isn't slitting, it's just enough to remind you that your walking a line you’ve crossed to many times before. Then you feel the dull pressure behind your eyes, the nausea. You sit on the edge of your bed and take deep breaths in and out.
The shower helps. Steam lessens the tightness in your shoulders, it fogs the mirror until your reflection disappears.
Today matters. You remember Wanda’s words “I expect professionalism.” You know you have to dress, and look well. You pick out something cleaner. Sharper. You decide on white dress pants, and a white halter top, you stole from one of the shoots. You do a light blowout to your long hair. You brush your teeth twice, you spray as much perfume as you can, so the smell of alcohol isn't stuck onto your body.
The ride over is quiet. You watch the city through the window, hands folded in your lap, you practice slow breathing. You don't check your phone, you know whats on there.
When you arrive the building is taller than you remembered it being. Glass and steel and a lot of money. The kind of place that doesn’t advertise its power, because it doesn’t need to. You pause for a half a second on the sidewalk before going in, just long enough to shake away the memories of the last time you were here. How hopeful you were, how hopeful you are now.
You fix your posture, and walk inside. The lobby smells the same as the last time you were here. It smells clean, and expensive. No music. No chatter. You give your name at the desk. The receptionist doesn’t blink.
“They’re expecting you.”
The elevator ride up is quiet. Mirrored walls throw your reflection back at you from every angle. You look fine… thats what you keep telling yourself. Tired, maybe. But models are always tired. You roll your shoulders once, subtly, you do this to ground yourself. When the elevator finally reaches the floor, it’s quiet. Assistants move quickly, voices low. Everything feels controlled. No one whispers. If they recognize you, they keep it to themselves. That’s new.
A woman steps toward you before you have time to wonder where you’re supposed to go. “Y/n,” she says. Her voice is calm, low, practiced. She’s dressed in a long black dress, simple but professional, the basic moving easily when she shifts her weight. Her hair is cherry red, vivid against the dark line of the hallway, pulled back just enough to keep iy out of her face. She’s beautiful.
“I’m Natasha Romanoff,” she continues, extending her hand. “I work under Wanda Maximoff.” You shake it. Her grip is firm. But brief.
“Im the second head here,” Natasha adds, already turning slight, like she expects you to follow. “I manage the models directly. One-on-one. If your taken on, I’ll be your primary point of contact.”
Taken on.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t soften it. She just looks at you once more, sharp and assessing, eyes flicking over you like shes reading you for something. “Follow me” she says.
And you do. You follow Natasha down the hallway.
She walks like she knows exactly how much space she takes up and doesn’t need to adjust for anyone else. The hem of her long black dress moves easily with her stride. Her heels dont click. They land muted. Natasha not once looks back to check if your following. She already knows you are. You wonder how.
“This way,” she says, Turing at the end of the corridor.
She stops infront of a class door and opens it, stepping aside just long enough for you to enter first. It’s a conference room, smaller than the other ones you passed, but no less intentioanal. Clean table, minimal chairs. Nothing on the walls except a framed editorial spears you recognize immediately. Icons.
The redhead closes the door behind you.
She studies you for a moment, eyes sharp, unreadable. Not judging, no. But measuring. You feel small. The silence stretches. The faint tension in your shoulders. The way that you’re holding yourself a little too carefully.
“You dont need to impress us, ok y/n?’ Natasha says finally. “Just don't lie.”Then she turns and opens the second door, and gestures you through.
There she is, Wanda Maximoff. She’s standing near a table this time, blue suit, white button down crisp against her skin. White heels grounded, Her light brown hair is pulled back bleakly, leaving her face open, composed.
She looks at you, not briefly, not dismissively, but with a kind of look that makes you feel like the room has narrowed around the two of you.
“Sit,” Wanda says gently. Not a command. Not a request. You do. The folder is already waiting on the table between you. Wanda takes her seat across form you, hands folding neatly atop the papers. Natasha remains standing off to the side, close enough to feel present without intruding. Wanda doesn’t open the folder right away. That confuses you. Instead she looks at you first.
“You look tired,” she says calmly. It’s not an accusation. And it’s true, you were tired. “This industry rewards endurance,” Wanda continues. “But it punishes neglect. Especially self-neglect. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but something in her tone does. It almost sounds like care. It’s restrained and intentional. Your stomach tightens. “I wont ask you to explain yourself,” she says. “Your past is documented well enough.”
“What I will do,” Wanda goes on, “is explain what happens next.” She opens the folder. You almost shudder. Almost. “These are the rules,” she says, sliding it towards you. “They are not negotiable. They exist to protect the work. And you.”You glance down, eyes scanning the first page, but her voice keeps pulling your attention back.
”I am strict,” Wanda says plainly. “Because inconsitencey destroys people like you faster than cruelty ever could.”
That hits somewhere deep. Uncomfortable.
“But I am not careless,” she adds, quieter, softer now. “I do not sign models I intend to discard.” Her eyes meet yours again. In an uncomfortable way, like shes stripping down a barrier you didn't know you had. By instinct that bring extra walls to shield you. They are being nice. To nice. Companies aren’t usually this sweet, especially big ones like this one. They are trying to get you to break, but you wont. “Y/n,” she says, voice steady and deliberate. “Ive met a lot of models over the years. Stars. Faces people thought were untouchable. She pauses, watching you closely.
“Ive worked hand in hand with them. Built careers. Watched them rise, and watched some of them burn out just as quickly.” Her tone doesn’t shift, but there’s something heavier underneath it now. Experience. “Most of them did not come to me with your history,” Wanda continues. “They didnt arrive already carrying this much weight.
You stay quiet.
”But I know this industry,” she says. “I know how cruel it can be. How quickly it takes and how little it gives back.” Her fingers rest flat against the contract. “I want you to see another side of it,” Wanda says. “One that is structured.” She exhales softly, then continues.
“That means rules.”
And there it is. The dreaded thing you hear from every company. ”No parties,” Wanda says. “No public nightlife. No environments designed to provoke headlines.” Your jaw tightens, but you nod. “That means no scandals,” she goes on. “No impulsive behavior that invites speculation. I will not clean up messes created for attention.”Silence fills the space. You understand what she is saying. There’s something in her tone that is serious, it sounds almost challenging.
She studies you again, more closely now.
“If you agree to this,” she says, “you will be held accountable. Firmly. Privately. Consistently.” A pause. “And if you falter,” Wanda continues, “we address it before it becomes a spectacle.”
That lands deeper than you expect.
“I won’t coddle you,” Wanda says. “But I will be fair.” Her voice softens just enough to matter. “And I will not exploit you.” Natasha remains silent beside her, arms crossed loosely, eyes trained on you like she’s memorizing the moment. You can feel her attention, steady, unblinking.
“I’ll be managing you directly,” Natasha says finally. “Schedules. Appearances. Check-ins. One-on-one.”Her gaze meets yours, and something unreadable flickers there.
“You won’t be guessing where you stand,” she adds.
Wanda slides the pen toward you.
“This is your choice,” she says. “If you sign, you work under my name. Under my standards.” She pauses.“And under my protection.”Your chest tightens.
You look down at the contract again. At the rules. At the structure laid out so plainly it almost feels like relief. Not freedom. but something solid enough to lean against.
You pick up the pen. Your hand trembles, just slightly. Wanda doesn’t comment. You sign. When she signs beneath your name, the motion is smooth, decisive. Final.
“You’re with us now,” Wanda says, standing. Her gaze lingers on you, strict, steady, unmistakably caring.
Natasha gathers the folder. “I’ll send you your schedule,” she says. “Tomorrow morning.”She looks at you once more, closer now. “Rest tonight.”
As you follow her back into the hallway, something settles low in your chest, uneasy, grounding, undeniable.
For the first time in a long time, someone didn’t just see the mess. And that was terrifying.