The truth is, I’ve been grinding away in the

entertainment industry for years—longer than I care to admit. But I remember exactly how it all started.

Back in high school, my days were a blur of classes and part-time shifts. After the last bell rang, while other kids hung out with friends or worried about prom, I was hustling to make ends meet. My mom’s hospital bills weren’t

going to pay themselves, and every hour

delivering chicken and soda for Bristol Spicy Chicken brought me one step closer to keeping the lights on at home.

That day felt like any other. I barely glanced at the delivery slip as I stuffed it into my pocket, grabbed the insulated box, and hopped into the company car. The radio hummed softly in the background as we weaved through traffic, but my mind was elsewhere—calculating bills, rent, and whether I’d have enough left over to pick up Mom’s medicine.

I didn’t pay much attention to our destination until we pulled up in front of a towering,

glass-paneled building. Its sleek, modern façade gleamed under the afternoon sun,

reflecting the city skyline like a mirage. My heart stuttered in my chest as I read the sign near the entrance:

PT Entertainment.

The biggest showbiz company in the entire country.

I sat frozen for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Kids at school would lose their minds just stepping inside. For me, it was nothing but another stop—another name on the delivery route. Still, as I slid out of the car and adjusted my uniform, I couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that I didn’t belong.

The lobby was a sea of marble and glass,

polished to a mirror shine. People swept past me—polished, elegant, and moving with

purpose. I tried not to feel out of place as I crossed to the elevator, offering a polite smile to anyone who made eye contact. Most didn’t. I could already tell that, in their world, I was

invisible.

When I stepped out onto the designated floor, the air felt heavier—buzzing with an energy I couldn’t quite name. My sneakers squeaked softly against the pristine floor as I approached a door marked Block B2, the delivery slip clutched tightly in my hand.

A security guard loomed in front of it—a mountain of a man in a black suit, arms folded across his chest. His gaze swept over me with a mixture of boredom and mild suspicion.

I cleared my throat. “Uh… excuse me. Is this Block B2?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. What’s your

business here, little girl?”

The condescension in his tone stung, but I forced a polite smile and lifted the delivery box toward him. “I’m here to deliver an order from Bristol Spicy Chicken. Five wings with extra pepper sauce and a large Coke—order number Ranger 2305.”

His gaze lingered on my uniform, as if daring it to be fake, before he finally stepped aside. “Make it quick. And don’t cause any trouble. People like you shouldn’t be here,” he muttered under his breath.

I didn’t respond—just nodded and slipped through the door.

The moment I stepped inside, my breath caught.

The space stretched out before me—massive and electric. Stage lights hung like artificial suns, their beams crisscrossing the room in bright, white streams. Technicians buzzed around, adjusting cameras and equipment while assistants hurried by, balancing clipboards and coffee cups. Voices echoed from every corner—commands, laughter,

music—blending into a chaotic symphony.

I’d never seen anything like it.

For a moment, I forgot why I was even there. My feet carried me forward, eyes wide,

drinking in every detail. The glint of polished floors. The smell of fresh paint and warm

electricity. Everything felt bigger, brighter—like stepping through a doorway into another

universe.

I kept moving, weaving through the sea of people, but no one seemed to notice me. My voice caught in my throat each time I tried to ask for directions. Everyone was too busy—too important—to bother with the delivery girl.

Somehow, in my wandering, I stumbled onto the stage itself. The smooth platform stretched beneath my feet, and before I could back away, a blinding spotlight slammed down on me.

I winced, raising a hand to shield my eyes. The heat from the light prickled my skin as I stood frozen in the center of the beam.

Don’t panic, I told myself.

I lowered the box carefully to the floor, bowed my head slightly, and forced my voice to stay calm and clear.

“Uh… hello, everyone. I’m Rovina from Bristol Spicy Chicken, here to deliver an order for Ranger 2305—five wings with extra pepper sauce and a large Coke.”

My words hung in the air.

Silence.

The hum of activity around me faded, as if the entire room had paused. Then—sharp,

deliberate—came the sound of heels clicking against the floor. Each step echoed, growing louder, closer, until the source stopped directly in front of me.

The first thing I saw were her shoes—red leather pencil heels that gleamed under the lights. Expensive. Elegant. Dangerous.

“I don’t remember this being in the script,” a voice drawled, smooth as velvet but with an edge of authority. “Who gave me the wrong script?”

I squinted as the light shifted, revealing her face.

Miss Glender.

I knew her—even if I didn’t follow entertainment. Everyone knew her. She was a

legend—a powerhouse producer whose name was

synonymous with success. Up close, she was even more stunning. Sharp cheekbones.

Impeccably styled dark hair. And an expression that could cut through steel.

A frazzled girl with thick glasses and a stack of papers came sprinting toward us, tripping over herself as she tried to explain. “M-Miss Glender, I’m so sorry! The script isn’t

wrong—this is just a mistake. Please, forgive us.”

Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed my arm, rattling off questions I barely registered. My heart pounded in my chest, but I couldn’t focus. I was too busy watching her—the way Miss Glender held

herself, like the whole world bent to her will.

Just as security began ushering me away, her voice cut through the noise again.

“Stop.”

I froze mid-step.

“You,” she said, pointing directly at me. “Come forward.”

I swallowed hard and stepped closer as she circled me slowly—eyes scanning me from head to toe. Without warning, she lifted my hand, tilted my chin—studying me like I was a piece of art, or maybe a puzzle she was trying to solve.

“She’ll do,” she said, flicking her fingers in a gesture that seemed to set the entire room in motion. “Get her ready in two hours.”

My pulse raced. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Wait—what about the chicken? I still have to deliver it.”

For a breathless second, she just stared at me. Then—she laughed. A low, knowing sound that sent a chill down my spine.

“You’re perfect,” she said, turning sharply on her heel. “Get started.”

Before I could wrap my head around what was happening, a swarm of people descended on me—pulling me off the stage and into the

unknown.

And the box of chicken wings?

It stayed right where I left it—forgotten in the middle of the spotlight.

The door slammed shut behind me, and before I could catch my breath, a whirlwind of people surrounded me. Hands tugged at my arms, loosening my uniform while voices filled the air, fast and sharp.

“Hair—get her hair down.”

“Foundation—light but flawless. We need her glowing.”

“Eyes—soft but striking. No, no—enhance the lashes. Let’s make those eyes pop.”

I stood frozen in the center of the dressing room, trying to process the chaos. The room

itself was overwhelming—lined with mirrors bordered by rows of bright bulbs, racks of shimmering clothes spilling across the floor, and the hum of hairdryers competing with the urgent voices around me.

Someone unpinned my hair, sending the tight bun I always wore tumbling into loose waves around my shoulders. Another person pressed me into a plush chair, already dabbing cool foundation across my skin.

“I—uh—wait,” I stammered, lifting my hands as if that could slow them down. “What is all this? What’s happening?”

No one answered. They were too busy

transforming me.

A stylist with electric-blue hair crouched by my feet, slipping off my worn sneakers and

replacing them with a pair of sleek, black heels. My heart pounded as a makeup artist leaned close, her brush moving with swift precision across my face. I caught my reflection in the mirror—a blur of movement, soft skin, shimmering lids—but I barely recognized myself.

“Relax, sweetheart,” someone murmured, smoothing my hair with delicate fingers.

“Miss Glender’s got an eye for this stuff. If she says you’re the one, you’re the one.”

I swallowed hard, trying to piece together how delivering chicken had turned into… whatever this was.

When they finally stepped back, the room fell into silence.

I turned slowly to the mirror, and my breath caught in my throat.

Is that… me?

The girl staring back at me wasn’t the tired

delivery girl I knew. This girl had soft waves of glossy black hair cascading over her shoulders, her skin radiant under the lights.

My eyes always plain to me—looked luminous, framed by delicate lashes that swept up like butterfly wings. My lips, brushed with a subtle blush of color, were fuller. Softer.

I wasn’t just presentable—I was breathtaking.

The room seemed to hold its collective breath as I stood up. My reflection followed, tall and graceful, as if I’d been born for a place like this.

A stylist whistled low under her breath. “Damn… no wonder Miss Glender stopped the shoot.”

I barely heard her. My pulse thundered in my ears as the door swung open, and two

assistants appeared to guide me out. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I followed them down the corridor, the sound foreign and elegant.

We entered the shooting space—a vast studio with towering lights and gleaming cameras.

At the center of it all, Miss Glender sat in a leather chair, legs crossed elegantly as if the entire world revolved around her. Her polished nails tapped idly against her knee.

When she saw me, she rose to her feet in one fluid motion. A smile curved across her lips slow and knowing.

“I knew it,” she said, her voice like silk. “I knew you were the one.”

I blinked at her, confusion swirling inside me. “But… how?” My voice came out softer than I expected, uncertain.

“I didn’t even know I—” I broke off, unable to find the words.

Miss Glender tilted her head slightly, studying me as if I were an art piece she’d personally crafted. “Most people only see what’s on the surface,” she said. “I see what’s underneath. And you—” her smile deepened—“were

always meant for this.”

I didn’t know what to say. A part of me wanted to argue, to explain that I was just a delivery girl with bills to pay. But another part—the part staring at my reflection, still disbelieving—wondered if she was right.

“Enough talking,” she said, snapping her

fingers. “Let’s shoot.”

The photographer, a tall man with a

permanently skeptical expression, stepped

forward, adjusting his camera. “Alright, newbie,” he muttered, glancing me over. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I hesitated as they led me to the backdrop—a soft, ethereal canvas that seemed to glow

under the lights. My palms felt clammy, heart hammering against my ribs.

What am I even doing here?

“Relax,” the photographer called out, lifting his camera. “Just breathe.”

I took a slow breath. And then—without fully understanding how—I shifted my posture,

angling my face toward the light.

The first flash exploded.

And suddenly, everything clicked.

It was like something inside me unlocked

a hidden part of myself I never knew existed. I didn’t have to think. My body just moved,

melting effortlessly from one pose to the next. A turn of my chin. A sweep of my gaze. Each motion felt natural—like I belonged there.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The photographer lowered his camera, eyes wide with disbelief. “Holy—every shot’s

perfect.” He turned to his assistant, flipping through the previews. “This girl… she’s a

natural.”

Murmurs swept through the room. Employees who had barely noticed me before now stood frozen, watching in stunned silence.

“How is this possible?” someone whispered.

“That’s the chicken delivery girl?”

By the time the last flash faded, I felt

breathless—like I had stepped out of a dream.

Miss Glender’s expression didn’t change. But the glint in her eyes said she wasn’t surprised. She’d seen it from the start.

As the crew began wrapping up, she leaned toward her secretary, whispered something in her ear, then turned on her heel and glided out of the studio—satisfied.

Moments later, I found myself in an office

bigger than my entire apartment. Leather

furniture gleamed beneath golden lights, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning view of the city below.

A crisp folder was placed in front of me. Inside—an official contract with PT Entertainment.

The words blurred as I stared down at the pages, my mind still spinning. Just this morning, I was worrying about chicken orders and hospital bills. Now, I was being offered a life I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“Take your time,” the assistant said, her voice polite but expectant.

I swallowed the rising panic in my throat. Everything was moving too fast. Too surreal. I needed time—to breathe, to think, to

understand what was happening to me.

I closed the folder carefully. “Could I… get a card?” My voice trembled slightly, but I held her gaze. “I’ll call you once I’ve had time to think.”

The assistant blinked, clearly unused to

hesitation, but slid a sleek black card across the desk.

I slipped it into my pocket, stood up, and left the office without looking back.

The city glowed beneath me, its skyline a

dazzling sea of lights stretching far beyond the glass windows of my apartment. From this height, the world felt distant—almost unreal. Yet, the faint hum of traffic below grounded me, reminding me of how far I had come.

I leaned against the cool glass, tracing a finger along the edge of the window. My reflection stared back—sleek black hair falling in glossy waves over my shoulders, skin polished to

perfection. I barely recognized the girl who once delivered chicken wings, struggling to make ends meet.

That girl felt like a different person—a ghost from a past life. And yet, she was still here, buried beneath the surface, watching as everything around her changed.

It all started that day.

The day Miss Glender stopped everything and chose me.

I still remember the way my hands trembled when I left PT Entertainment’s building,

clutching the glossy black card with their

golden logo pressed against my palm. I spent hours after that wandering the city, the weight of their offer heavy on my mind.

Was this real? Could I trust it?

By the time I made it home, the sun had dipped behind the horizon, casting the

worn-down apartment complex in shadows.

I slipped inside quietly, careful not to wake my mother, whose fragile body lay curled on the living room sofa. The scent of old medicine and faint cleaning supplies hung in the air—a

reminder of the bills I couldn’t afford to pay.

I stood in the dim light of the kitchen, staring at the card. My heart thudded in my chest.

I could say no. I could keep delivering chicken, dragging myself through late nights and missed dreams. I knew that life. It was

safe—predictable.

But… I could say yes.

The next morning, with barely any sleep and my stomach twisted into knots, I called the number on the card. The woman on the other end—sharp, efficient—didn’t sound surprised to hear from me. Within hours, I was back in their glass skyscraper, the ink drying on a

contract that would change my life forever.

The first months were a blur.

Early mornings and late nights. Training

sessions that left my body aching. Walking in heels for hours until my feet blistered. Miss Glender didn’t accept anything less than

perfection, and neither did the industry.

I learned quickly—how to carry myself with confidence I didn’t feel, how to angle my face toward the light to capture the perfect shot. How to smile when I wanted to cry.

There were moments I wanted to

quit—moments when exhaustion sank deep into my bones. But every time I thought about giving up, I remembered my mother’s face, pale and weary, and the hospital bills piling up. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t go back.

And, somehow, the work started to pay off.

Photo shoots turned into magazine covers. Runway shows turned into exclusive invitations. One day, I was the girl no one noticed—just another face in the crowd. The next, I was everywhere. My image plastered across billboards, my name whispered in conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear.

I became Rovina.

But no matter how many flashing cameras surrounded me, I never forgot the truth: This world wasn’t mine. I was still just a girl trying to survive.

“Big day tomorrow.”

Miss Glender’s voice echoed in my ears, pulling me back to the present. I shifted my gaze away from the window and toward the sleek phone lying on the coffee table. Her message had come through an hour ago—short and direct, as always.

Tomorrow, I would walk the biggest runway of my career.

Everything I had worked for led to this moment. The world would be watching—waiting to see if I would shine… or if I would break.

A soft sigh escaped my lips as I pushed away from the window. I crossed the room, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor. My apartment was nothing like the cramped place I once shared with my mother. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering skyline, and sleek, modern furniture filled the open space. It was the kind of home I never thought I’d have.

And yet, standing here alone, I felt the weight of it pressing down on me.

I paused by the coffee table, running my

fingers across the black and gold invitation.

The Grand Luxe Fashion Show—A Celebration of Elegance.

Tomorrow, I wouldn’t just be another

model—I would be the centerpiece. Miss

Glender had made sure of it.

But beneath the glamour and the flashing lights, one truth still clung to me.

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I had fought my way into a world that wasn’t meant for girls like me—girls from broken homes who delivered chicken to make ends meet. But now that I had a seat at the table, I wasn’t about to give it up.

Not for anyone.

As the city lights flickered outside, I turned my back on the view and walked toward my

bedroom. Tomorrow, the world would see me. The real me.

And this time—I wouldn’t let them forget it.