Zoe's POV
Zara's office was a pristine space with glass walls, soundproof yet oddly suffocating. Shelves lined with the glinting trophies and framed magazine covers told the story of her rise through the fashion industry—each accolade a testament to her dedication and fierce ambition. Her desk was immaculate, minimalistic to the point of sterility.
She closed the door behind me, sealing off any chance of retreat.
"Sit," she instructed.
I obeyed, taking a seat as tension coiled around me like a heavy fog.
She remained poised, steadfast in her resolve.
"What did we discuss the other day?" she asked, her voice slicing through the air like a knife.
My throat tightened, constricted by the weight of her gaze.
"About… the runway song," I managed to reply, my heart racing.
"And?"
A bead of sweat trickled down my back as her piercing eyes narrowed, demanding more than just simple echoes of our conversation.
