Zoe's POV
The rail was cold against my palms as I held on and stretched forward, bending until my back arched in a clean, trembling sweep. My right leg lifted and hooked over the barre, reaching higher than felt humanly possible. I wasn't a ballet dancer, but tonight, I moved like someone begging her own bones to obey her.
The studio around me was almost completely empty, the kind of empty that could make a whisper echo like a shout. My breaths filled the space—heavy, ragged, and sharp with exhaustion. I had pushed myself to this edge every day for a week. Maybe harder than anyone else in this building. Modeling wasn't my first dream; it wasn't even my second. But I'd always believed one thing: anything worth doing is worth doing well.
And this?
This show?
Zara's show?
It wasn't something I was going to depend on luck to survive.
