Chapter 3

"Valerie, have you seen the internet today?"

My agent, Gillian Hayes, spoke through the keyhole of the locked dressing room.

It was the next morning. The committee wouldn't let me leave, claiming they had to wait for the official psychiatric evaluation report.

I had spent the entire night curled up on the small sofa.

"What video? They took my phone."

The lock turned, and Gillian walked in. Her face was pale.

She handed me her phone.

On the screen was a short video uploaded by an account called *Concerned for Models' Health*. It already had over 200,000 views.

It was the footage of Dr. Vance evaluating me—heavily edited.

The clip of me saying, "I only weigh 92 pounds" played on a loop, followed by a voiceover: *Prominent psychologist warns that the contestant suffers from severe body dysmorphia, leading to a dangerous delusion regarding her body weight.*

The top pinned comment read: *Poor Valerie. I hope she gets the professional help she needs.*

120,000 likes.

"Who posted this?"

"We don't know," Gillian sighed, avoiding my gaze. "But the account is registered under Sinclair Media Group."

Chloe's father's company.

"Gillian, look at this. They cut out everything I said to defend myself. They only kept my denial of the scale's weight, framed by a doctor's diagnosis—"

"I know," Gillian interrupted. "But the agency has already made a decision."

She looked at me, her eyes filled with pity and fear.

"Valerie, the agency is suspending your contract."

"Suspending it?"

"Robert Croft sent a formal letter to our board this morning. He cited your 'extreme behavioral instability' and suggested we review your professionalism. The legal department went into panic mode."

I gripped her phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

"Gillian, I tore my dress because the scale was rigged. I heard Chloe on the phone last night—"

"Do you have proof?"

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

I didn't. No phone, no recording. I was the only one who heard that call.

"Valerie, I want to believe you. But belief doesn't win lawsuits. The agency needs hard evidence."

Gillian sighed, pulling a document from her bag and placing it on the table.

"This is a notice of intent to sue for breach of contract. If you can't provide solid proof of the committee's wrongdoing within seven days, the agency will terminate your contract and sue you for your development debt."

"How much?"

"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

My hands began to shake.

After Gillian left, the door was locked again.

About an hour later, a random staff member opened the door and tossed my phone onto the table without a word.

"The committee says you're free to go. Use the back exit."

I grabbed the phone and lit up the screen.

Forty-seven missed calls.

Thirty of them were from my mother.

I dialed her back immediately. She picked up on the first ring.

"Valerie? Are you okay? I saw the videos on Instagram—"

"Mom, I'm fine. The videos are fake, they're edited."

"But the news says you're sick... Tell me the truth, honey. Are you not eating again? Are you okay?"

"Mom, I am not sick. The competition is rigged. They messed with the scale—"

"Valerie," my mother's voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. "Someone called the house earlier."

My body went rigid.

"Who?"

"She didn't give a name. She said she was your colleague. She said you were having a mental breakdown and that I needed to commit you to a hospital. She also said..."

My mother choked up.

"What else, Mom?"

"She said if you keep making a scene, the committee will sue. She said you'll go to prison, and they'll seize the money you used to pay for my medical treatments."

The blood rushed to my ears.

"Mom, she's lying. What hospital are you in right now?"

"The... Serenity Care Facility. The place Sinclair Group owns. The one you transferred me to last month because of their great physical therapy program."

Sinclair Group.

Chloe's father's facility.

My mother was in a building owned by the man trying to destroy me.

"Valerie? Are you there?"

"Mom, listen to me. Don't worry. I'm going to fix this."

"What is happening, Valerie? I can't walk well, but I can—"

"Mom, listen."

I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound steady.

"If anyone comes to ask you about me over the next few days, do not say a word. Do not sign anything. Do you understand me?"

"But the nurse just came in with a form—"

"What form?!"

"She said it was a family consent form for your psychiatric evaluation... I haven't signed it yet. Something felt off."

My hand was trembling so hard I could barely hold the phone.

"Do not sign it. It's not a consent form, Mom. It's the paperwork they need to legally lock me up in a mental institution."

Silence stretched over the line.

"Valerie... what are these people trying to do to you?"

I looked at my reflection in the dressing room mirrors—skeletal, pale, makeup smeared.

"They want to convince the world I'm crazy, Mom."

Right after I hung up, an Instagram notification popped up.

Chloe had just posted a new video.

She was sitting under soft, flattering lighting, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet sorrow.

"Valerie and I may be competitors, but I've always respected her. Seeing her break down like this breaks my heart. Please, everyone, stop attacking her. She's just sick. I've already reached out to the best psychiatric team in the country, and I'll personally cover all her medical expenses. Valerie, no matter how you feel about me, I just want you to get better."

In the bottom right corner, the like count was climbing by thousands every second.

The top comment: *Chloe is a literal angel. I'm crying.*

I slammed the phone onto the sofa.

"Chloe, you are a walking, talking vending machine of fake tears."

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