CASTING
The train from Stockholm to Milan had been long, and by the time Elin Dahlström checked into a small, creaking inn near Centrale station, she was exhausted. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and old curtains, but it was cheap, and that was all that mattered. She laid her portfolio on the desk and studied herself in the cracked mirror.
Blonde hair, straight and long, falling like spun gold around her shoulders. Storm-gray eyes, pale and striking, almost silver under the light. She was tall — too tall for her classmates back home, but here in Milan, she hoped it would finally mean something.
Tomorrow, she had three casting calls. They weren’t for major brands, not yet, but they were her first chance to step into the industry she had dreamed of since childhood. As she fell asleep on the thin mattress, she whispered to herself, This is the beginning.
---
The next morning, the casting room was crowded with young women from every corner of Europe. Russian, Brazilian, Spanish, French — all tall, all beautiful, all waiting for a chance. The air was thick with perfume and nerves.
That was when Françoise Mercier entered.
She didn’t need to announce herself; the room shifted the moment she appeared. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and her eyes — a crystalline blue — missed nothing. She wore a black Dior suit that whispered wealth, with a silk scarf tied neatly at her throat. Everyone knew who she was: the woman behind Maison de Lumière, one of the most exclusive modeling agencies in Europe.
Françoise’s gaze moved slowly across the room until it landed on Elin. For a moment, the chaos of voices and footsteps seemed to hush.
“You,” Françoise said softly, pointing as if she had plucked Elin out of a lineup. “Stand. Walk.”
Elin’s legs felt like glass, but she obeyed, moving down the makeshift runway. Françoise’s expression never changed, but when Elin stopped, she allowed a small, approving smile.
“Perfect symmetry. The eyes of winter. A body meant for couture. Vogue Italia would die for you. Prada. Dior. Valentino. Balenciaga. You could be the next global face.”
The words fell like jewels, each one heavy with promise. Elin’s breath caught.
Françoise stepped closer, her voice low, smooth. “I can make you a star. Maison de Lumière provides everything — a private apartment in Brera, your expenses covered, a monthly retainer of twenty thousand euros. You will live like the woman the world already believes you are.”
Elin blinked, stunned. An apartment? Twenty thousand euros a month?
Françoise placed a crisp folder in her hands — a contract embossed with gold lettering. “This is an opportunity few receive, and fewer still deserve. But you… you are not like the rest.”
Elin’s heart hammered. The other girls in the room watched, some envious, others resigned. She should have paused, she should have read more carefully, but the weight of the moment pressed her forward.
She signed.
---
That evening, she moved into the promised apartment. It was nothing like the dingy inn — marble floors, a balcony overlooking the cobblestone streets of Brera, a closet already filled with designer clothes.
On the kitchen counter sat an envelope with her name. Inside, a note written in elegant script:
> Welcome to Maison de Lumière. Remember: beauty is power, and power demands sacrifice.
Elin read the words twice. They felt strange, heavy, but she brushed it off. She was in Milan. She was with one of the most powerful agencies in Europe. She was finally on the path to the life she had always imagined.
Elin sat on the edge of her new bed, the silk sheets slipping through her fingers like water. The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet, and though she was surrounded by luxury, her mind drifted back to Sweden — back to a crowded little house filled with laughter, arguments, and the smell of her mother’s cinnamon rolls baking in the oven.
She had grown up the middle child of seven, squeezed between two brothers who never stopped wrestling and sisters who borrowed her clothes without asking. Life was noisy, chaotic, but it was never unkind. Her father, a mechanic, always came home with grease on his hands, smelling faintly of oil and metal. Her mother, a schoolteacher, carried stacks of papers under her arm, her glasses sliding down her nose, yet still found time to ask each child about their day.
They didn’t have much — just enough to keep food on the table and the children clean and well. But what they lacked in wealth, they gave in love.
Elin could still remember the exact moment her dream had been born. She was seven, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, when a commercial flickered across the television screen. A model, tall and radiant, spun in a breathtaking evening gown, the fabric catching the light like liquid stars. Elin’s little heart clenched.
That will be me, she had whispered, as if declaring a secret vow to the universe. That’s my destiny.
From then on, she never let go of the vision. She worked every babysitting job she could get, balancing trays at the small café in town, wiping tables with aching arms, all while setting aside every coin she could save. Her friends spent their money on clothes or nights out — Elin saved hers for train tickets, auditions, a someday that never left her mind.
Her parents encouraged her even when others laughed.“Travel,” her father told her one night as they sat in the garage, the air heavy with the scent of gasoline. “See the world. Don’t stay in one place just because it’s safe.”Her mother kissed her forehead, her voice soft but firm. “Never give up, Elin. You were born for something bigger.”
Now, sitting in this extravagant Milan apartment, she could still hear their voices.
She picked up her phone, holding it in her hand as her eyes stung with sudden tears. She couldn’t wait to call them, to tell them she had signed with Maison de Lumière, that her face would be in magazines, that their sacrifices had not been in vain.
For a moment, she was simply their daughter again — the dreamer from the crowded house, the little girl who had pointed at the screen and said, one day.
And now, that day was here.
At Maison de Lumière, everything felt intoxicating. The studio smelled of fresh makeup and hairspray, the walls covered with glossy photographs of models she had only ever admired from afar. Her first test shoot went better than she could have hoped. Under the lights, she forgot her nerves and slipped into the rhythm of the camera. The photographer clapped his hands. “Beautiful! Perfect bone structure. Gray eyes like steel! You’ll be front row for Vogue before long.”
The other girls welcomed her warmly, all cheek kisses and compliments. Elin laughed with them over croissants afterward, soaking in their energy, feeling at last that she belonged.
That evening, as they gathered their things, Elaina, a tall brunette with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, linked arms with her.“Come with us tonight,” she said brightly. “There’s a party — nothing serious, just fun. You need to see what Milan nightlife is really like.”
Elin hesitated but curiosity won. After all, wasn’t this what she had dreamed of? Glamour. Excitement. The world opening its doors.
---
The party was held in a penthouse loft near the Navigli canals. Music thumped through the walls, and laughter spilled out into the hallway before Elin even entered. Inside, the atmosphere was dazzling — chandeliers glowed overhead, champagne flowed freely, and trays of colorful cocktails passed from hand to hand.
But it didn’t take long for her to notice the other things. Lines of white powder on glass tables. Girls she had just met at the agency already leaning into men twice their age, giggling, lips stained red from wine. Bodies pressed together on velvet couches, the air heavy with perfume, smoke, and something else she couldn’t name.
Elin felt suddenly out of place, like a child wearing her mother’s dress. She drifted to the edge of the room, clutching a glass she had no intention of drinking.
That was when Elaina appeared again — and with her, him.
“Elin, this is Stefan,” she said with a coy smile.
He looked like he had stepped out of a magazine for a different audience entirely. Mid-fifties, tall, with a perfectly groomed gray beard and silver hair that shone under the lights. His tailored suit was so sharp it could have been custom-stitched onto him, and when he smiled, it was with the easy charm of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.
He could be my father, Elin thought, startled. Is this really Elaina’s boyfriend?
Stefan extended a hand, his movements deliberate, refined. His accent was unmistakably British — smooth, polished, the kind of voice that made every word sound important.
“Nice to meet you, Elin,” he said, his grip gentle but firm, his eyes studying her with unnerving calm.
“Nice to meet you,” she murmured, forcing a smile.
They spoke casually — about Milan, about modeling, about her first impressions of the agency. He asked questions with genuine interest, yet there was something in the way he looked at her, as if she were already a story written, a page he could read at will.
Before she could ask more, Elaina tugged his hand playfully. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” she said to Elin, her eyes sparkling with a secret Elin didn’t understand. Then, without another word, she left, Stefan’s arm draped around her waist.
---
The night unraveled further. Everywhere she turned, there were girls giggling too loudly, kissing strangers, drinking until their mascara smeared. It was like watching a scene from a movie she didn’t belong in. The music pounded against her chest, the air thick with heat and smoke.
Elin lingered a little longer, unsure what was expected of her, before finally slipping her bag over her shoulder. She muttered excuses to no one in particular and made her way out.
As she stepped into the cool night air, the sounds of the party fading behind her, she drew a deep breath. For the first time since arriving in Milan, doubt pricked at the edge of her mind.
But she pushed it down. Tomorrow, she told herself, would be another bright day.
