[EMY]
After a month of relentless preparation, my skin had finally recovered . . . somewhat.
There were still traces of pimples and scars if you looked closely, but at least my complexion had lightened enough that I didn't look like I'd been wrestling with frying oil.
Six months—that's what I needed to polish my face into perfection. But right now, who had six months? Time wasn't a luxury I could afford.
I threw on my finest clothes—which, unfortunately, meant a plain shirt and jeans. Thanks to the brutal diet and exercise regimen I'd been sticking to, they hung a little looser than before, airy in all the wrong places.
My wardrobe clearly needed an upgrade, but that would have to wait until I landed a contract with Star Entertainment and made money as a songwriter.
For now, my "casual peasant chic" would have to do.
I hailed a taxi and soon found myself standing in front of a skyscraper that seemed determined to stab the clouds—a hundred-story monument of steel and glass.
The moment I stepped inside, the air practically screamed, state-of-the-art. Marble floors gleamed so brightly I could see my half-decent reflection. People around me strutted in tailored blazers, luxury sneakers, and handbags that cost more than my entire month's rent.
I was ninety-nine percent sure I was the only one in jeans.
After checking in at the reception desk, I headed toward the designated floor where the contest would be held.
The room was already buzzing with contestants. Everyone looked like they'd just stepped out of a curated Instagram feed. Hair perfectly styled, clothes sharp and trendy, faces glowing like they'd just been kissed by the skincare gods.
Meanwhile, I sat down in my corner seat, trying not to look like a lost delivery boy.
That's when the whispers began.
"Look at her. That's Jes, right?" a girl beside me said in a stage whisper that was anything but discreet.
Her friend leaned closer, eyes wide with excitement. "Yeah, that's Jes. She's popular online—five hundred thousand followers, I think. Writes her own songs, sings them too. People love her stuff."
I tried not to roll my eyes. Great. Already competing with influencers.
Another pair of contestants entered, and the murmurs shifted.
"Hey, isn't that Ben?"
Heads turned. Mine included.
"Yeah," someone else chimed in, "he's already a songwriter. Worked with actual artists before. What's he doing here?"
"Maybe he got tired of freelancing and wants a stable contract," the first girl suggested.
"This is the fastest way to land one in Star Entertainment."
"No way, he's a pro! Isn't this unfair?"
"There's no rule that says people with a name can't enter."
The rumors swirled faster than perfume in a crowded elevator. Names dropped. Credentials flashed. Half the contestants were already celebrities in some corner of the internet.
But me? I didn't care. Not about Jes, not about Ben, not about anyone else in the room.
I wasn't here to compare wardrobes, follower counts, or who had the best collagen-based skincare routine. I was here for one thing: to win. To get that contract. To take one step closer to Eric.
And if anyone dared to stand in my way, they'd better hope their fancy jackets and perfect teeth could protect them.
Because I was ready to win this things no matter what.