# Chapter 1: Mirror, Mirror

Miranda stepped inside her penthouse apartment, kicking off her six-inch Louboutins that made her long legs look even longer. She wiggled her toes against the cool marble floor and sighed with relief. After eight hours of posing and smiling for the camera, she deserved this moment of comfort. She walked across the spacious living room and dropped her designer handbag onto the white leather sofa.

"Home sweet home," she said to herself, glancing around at the minimalist decor she had carefully selected. Everything in pure white, glass, and chrome—the perfect backdrop for her beauty.

She pulled her phone from her bag and opened Instagram before doing anything else. She scrolled through her feed, stopping at her most recent post from this morning—a perfectly posed selfie with just the right lighting that accentuated her high cheekbones and made her eyes pop.

"Ninety-three thousand likes already?" She smiled widely as she tapped on the notification. "Not bad for a Tuesday."

She scrolled through the comments, reading the endless praise from her followers:

*OMG you're literally perfect* *How are you even real?* *Queen energy* *My skin is clearing and my depression is cured just looking at you*

Miranda nodded in agreement with each comment. She reached for the remote control and pressed a button, causing the blinds to rise automatically, revealing the glittering New York skyline. The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing her in golden light. She held up her phone and snapped another selfie, capturing her silhouette against the city backdrop.

"Perfect," she murmured, quickly applying a filter and posting it with the caption: *Just another day at the office. Grateful for this view and for all of you! #blessed #modellife*

She placed her phone on the glass coffee table and walked to her kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of green juice she'd prepared that morning. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste. Beauty required sacrifice, and her nutritionist insisted this concoction of kale, cucumber, celery, and lemon would keep her skin glowing.

Her phone chimed with a notification, and she nearly spilled her juice rushing back to check it. Another five thousand likes already? She smiled and picked up her phone, but her expression fell when she saw it was just a text message from Olivia.

She opened it reluctantly:

*Hey stranger! Haven't heard from you in forever. There's a charity gala for children's education next Saturday at The Plaza. Would love to see you there—it's for a great cause, and I miss you! Tickets are $200. Let me know if you can make it! xo*

Miranda rolled her eyes. Olivia still didn't understand how things worked in Miranda's world now. Two hundred dollars? That was barely the cost of her facial serum. And a children's charity event? Where was the prestige in that?

She tapped out a quick response:

*So swamped right now, Liv. Just wrapped a major shoot for Vogue and have back-to-back commitments for the next month. Rain check? xo*

She sent the message, knowing full well her schedule for next Saturday consisted of a morning yoga class and brunch. But she couldn't waste an evening on some small-time charity event where no one important would see her. What was the point?

Miranda walked over to the large mirror hanging in her entryway and studied her reflection. She tucked a strand of glossy blonde hair behind her ear and smiled at herself. The lighting in her apartment always made her look incredible—it was one of the main reasons she'd chosen this place.

"What can I say when I am so beautiful and great?" she whispered to her reflection, touching her face gently. She didn't expect an answer. It was a rhetorical question she often asked herself, a personal affirmation that never failed to boost her confidence.

Her phone chimed again. This time it was a notification from her agent, Veronica.

*Great news! The Gleam Beauty Awards nominations are being announced next week. I've heard through the grapevine that you're on the shortlist for Rising Star of the Year. Nothing confirmed yet, but looking good! Call me tomorrow.*

Miranda squealed with delight, clutching the phone to her chest. The Gleam Awards were the most prestigious in the beauty and modeling industry. A nomination would solidify her rising status, and winning? Winning would catapult her into supermodel territory.

"I knew it," she said, tossing her phone onto the sofa and spinning around in excitement. "Of course they're going to nominate me. Who else could they possibly choose?"

She walked into her bedroom, where a selection of outfits from today's shoot were still hanging on a rack. Her stylist had let her keep a few pieces—a perk of becoming more recognized in the industry. She ran her fingers over the expensive fabrics, stopping at a shimmering silver gown that would be perfect for an awards ceremony.

"This is the one," she decided, pulling it from the rack and holding it against her body as she looked in the mirror. "When I win the Rising Star award, this is what I'll wear."

She imagined herself walking the red carpet, cameras flashing, reporters calling her name. She pictured her perfect smile, her graceful wave to the adoring crowd. The vision was so vivid she could almost hear the applause.

Miranda hung the dress on her closet door where she could see it every day—a visualization of her impending triumph. She then opened her laptop and began researching previous Gleam Award winners, studying their acceptance speeches and red carpet interviews.

"Too emotional," she criticized as she watched a tearful model thank her family. "Too rehearsed," she said about another who recited a clearly memorized speech. "Too humble," she scoffed at a winner who seemed genuinely surprised by her victory.

Miranda knew better than to make these amateur mistakes. Her speech would be poised, confident, and just vulnerable enough to seem authentic without being messy. She opened a new document and began typing.

*Thank you to the Gleam Awards committee for this incredible honor. I've dreamed of this moment since I was a little girl posing in front of my bedroom mirror...*

She stopped and deleted the line. Too cliché.

*I stand before you tonight not just as a model, but as an artist who uses her body as a canvas...*

She deleted that too. Too pretentious.

She tried again:

*This award isn't just for me, but for every girl who's been told she isn't enough...*

"Ugh, no." She deleted the document entirely and closed her laptop. "I'll wing it. Spontaneity always looks better on camera anyway."

She picked up her phone again and scrolled through her social media, spotting a post from Naomi Campbell at a charity event in London. The supermodel looked stunning in a black gown, surrounded by A-list celebrities and royalty.

Miranda's thoughts drifted back to Olivia's text about the charity gala. Maybe she'd been too hasty in declining. If the right people were there, if photographers from the right publications were covering it, perhaps it could be worthwhile after all.

She reopened their text conversation and was about to type a new message when she saw three dots indicating Olivia was writing something. She waited.

*No worries! I understand you're busy. Just miss seeing you. You've changed so much since high school. Remember when we used to split $5 pizzas and talk about our dreams? Anyway, the invitation stands if you change your mind.*

Miranda stared at the message, feeling a strange twinge in her chest. She tapped her perfectly manicured nails against the phone case, considering her response.

"Split pizzas," she muttered with a slight curl of her lip. "As if I'd put that garbage in my body now."

She typed and deleted several responses before settling on:

*Those were simpler times! Life's just crazy busy now. We'll catch up soon!*

She added a heart emoji and sent the message, knowing "soon" would likely never come. She and Olivia lived in completely different worlds now. Her old friend couldn't possibly understand the demands of Miranda's life or the importance of her career trajectory.

Miranda walked back to her kitchen and opened a cabinet filled with supplements and vitamins. She counted out her afternoon doses—collagen for her skin, biotin for her hair, a probiotic for her gut health, and several other capsules that promised to enhance her natural beauty from the inside out.

She swallowed them one by one with the remains of her green juice, grimacing at the aftertaste. Beauty was work, and she was nothing if not dedicated to her craft.

The intercom buzzed, startling her. She walked over and pressed the button.

"Yes?"

"Package for you, Ms. Beaumont," came the doorman's voice.

"Send it up, please."

A few minutes later, there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find the doorman holding a large white box tied with a black satin ribbon.

"Thank you, Eduardo," she said, taking the box and giving him her practiced model smile—lips parted just slightly, eyes twinkling.

"My pleasure, Ms. Beaumont," he replied, tipping his hat before returning to the elevator.

Miranda closed the door and carried the box to her dining table. She untied the ribbon carefully and lifted the lid, finding a handwritten note on top:

*For the most beautiful face in New York. These products aren't worthy of your skin, but they're the best science can offer. Hoping to see you again soon. —James*

She smiled, vaguely recalling the cosmetic surgeon she'd met at a launch party last week. She'd mentioned her interest in his new line of skin care, and apparently, he'd been listening.

Inside the box were a dozen luxury products, each in sleek, minimalist packaging. She quickly arranged them on her marble countertop and took a photo for Instagram, being careful to position the products so their labels were clearly visible. Free advertising for James, valuable content for her feed—everyone won.

*Special delivery from @DrJamesPorter! Can't wait to try these out and report back. Stay tuned! #gifted #skincareroutine #blessed*

She posted the photo and smiled as the likes immediately began rolling in. This was the currency that mattered in her world—attention, admiration, envy.

Miranda carried the box to her bathroom and began arranging the products alongside her already extensive collection. Her bathroom counter resembled a department store beauty section, with serums, creams, masks, and treatments meticulously organized by function and frequency of use.

She examined her face in the magnifying mirror, searching for any imperfections. There was a barely perceptible fine line forming at the corner of her right eye. She made a mental note to call Dr. Porter tomorrow about a preventative Botox treatment. Twenty-six was young, but in the modeling world, prevention was everything.

Her phone chimed again. This time it was an email notification from the organizers of New York Fashion Week, confirming her front row seat assignments for the upcoming shows. She quickly scanned the list of designers, noting with satisfaction that she'd been given prime placement at all the most prestigious shows.

"As it should be," she nodded, forwarding the email to her assistant with instructions to confirm all the invitations and check for any scheduling conflicts.

She walked back to her living room and settled onto her sofa, picking up the remote to turn on her massive flat-screen TV. She flipped through channels until she found a fashion documentary she'd been meaning to watch—a behind-the-scenes look at last year's Met Gala.

As she watched the celebrities and models preparing for the event, she imagined herself there next year. She'd wear something daring and avant-garde, something that would land her on every best-dressed list. The cameras would love her, the designers would clamor to dress her, and her social media following would explode.

Her reverie was interrupted by another notification. This time it was a reminder about her dinner reservation at eight. She'd completely forgotten she had plans with Jason, a hedge fund manager she'd been seeing casually for the past few weeks. He was handsome enough and certainly wealthy enough, but she found him rather dull. Still, he took her to all the right restaurants and never complained about her constant selfie-taking or the paparazzi that occasionally followed them.

She glanced at the clock—just past six. Plenty of time to get ready. She rose from the sofa and headed to her walk-in closet, flipping through designer dresses until she found a simple black Versace that would be perfect for Eleven Madison Park.

As she laid the dress on her bed, her thoughts returned to Olivia's text. How could she explain to her old friend that splitting pizzas and reminiscing about high school dreams wasn't just unappealing—it was dangerous? One wrong photo, one unflattering moment captured and shared online, and her carefully cultivated image could be tarnished.

Miranda walked into her bathroom and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature to the perfect warmth. As steam filled the room, she removed her makeup with expensive cleansing oil, watching her "natural" beauty emerge from beneath the layers of professional artistry.

Even bare-faced, she was stunning—this she knew with absolute certainty. Her bone structure, her clear skin, her perfectly proportioned features—these were gifts she'd been born with, advantages she'd leveraged into a career and a lifestyle most people could only dream of.

She stepped into the shower and let the hot water cascade over her body, closing her eyes as she mentally rehearsed her acceptance speech again. The words came more naturally now:

*I want to thank the Gleam Awards for this incredible recognition. Beauty has always been my passion, my purpose. Some people are born to change the world through science or art or literature. I was born to show the world what true beauty looks like, to inspire others to reach for perfection. This award validates what I've always known—that I was meant to be seen, to be admired, to represent an ideal. Thank you for seeing in me what I've always seen in myself.*

She smiled, satisfied with this version. It acknowledged her exceptional qualities without sounding arrogant. It framed her beauty as a service to the world rather than a personal advantage. Perfect.

After her shower, Miranda wrapped herself in a plush white towel and applied her evening skin care routine—cleanser, toner, essence, serum, moisturizer, eye cream, face oil. Each product cost more than most people's entire cosmetic collections, but they were investments in her greatest asset: her face.

She blow-dried her hair until it fell in soft waves around her shoulders, then applied minimal makeup—just enough to enhance her natural beauty without looking like she was trying too hard for a dinner date.

As she slipped into her dress and stepped into her heels, she took a final look in the full-length mirror. The reflection that stared back at her was flawless—a vision of beauty and sophistication that had been carefully crafted through genetics, discipline, and strategic investments.

"What can I say when I am so beautiful and great?" she whispered again, this time with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The phrase had become a mantra, a shield against any doubts that might try to creep in.

She picked up her clutch and checked its contents—credit card, ID, lip gloss, phone. Everything she needed for an evening out. She took one last glance around her immaculate apartment, at the silver gown hanging on her closet door, at the evidence of her curated life.

Miranda practiced a few poses in the mirror, rehearsing the angles and expressions that photographed best. With the Gleam Awards nomination all but confirmed, she needed to be ready for increased attention. She imagined herself at the podium, accepting the award, delivering her speech to a captive audience of industry elites.

"I've always known I was destined for greatness," she practiced, adjusting her posture to appear both confident and humble. "Beauty isn't just about appearance—it's about presence, about the way you move through the world knowing your own worth."

She paused, considering her words.

"Thank you for this award," she continued. "It's an honor to be recognized by an industry I've admired since childhood. This is just the beginning of what I hope will be a legacy of beauty and influence."

She nodded, pleased with how the words sounded. Confident but not arrogant. Appreciative but not overly grateful, as if the recognition were unexpected. The perfect balance.

Miranda checked the time on her phone and saw she still had thirty minutes before she needed to leave for her dinner reservation. She decided to use the time to practice her red carpet walk and poses. She cleared a path in her living room, imagining it as the red carpet leading to the Gleam Awards ceremony.

She turned on some music—a powerful, rhythmic track that made her feel invincible—and began to walk, one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying subtly, shoulders back, chin lifted at the perfect angle.

"Miranda! Over here!" she imagined the photographers calling. She turned, offering her left side—her better side—and gave them the smile that had launched her career, the smile that had graced billboards and magazine covers.

She practiced different poses, knowing which angles flattered her figure best, which expressions seemed most authentic on camera. She'd studied the art of being photographed with the same dedication others might apply to academic subjects.

As she made another turn in her impromptu runway, her phone rang. She checked the screen—it was Veronica, her agent. She answered immediately.

"Veronica, hi! I got your message about the Gleam Awards. That's amazing news!"

"Miranda, darling," Veronica's smooth voice came through the speaker. "Yes, things are looking promising, but remember—nothing's confirmed yet. The committee is still deliberating."

"But you said I'm on the shortlist," Miranda replied, a slight edge creeping into her voice.

"You are, along with several others. Catalina Rodriguez is in the running, and you know how much momentum she's gained this year. And there's talk about Zoe Chen after her Dior campaign went viral."

Miranda's jaw tightened at the mention of her competitors. Catalina with her exotic look and social media savvy. Zoe with her unique features that had designers raving about a "new standard of beauty."

"They're good, but they're not me," Miranda said firmly.

"Of course not, darling," Veronica agreed smoothly. "You have a unique quality that can't be replicated. I'm just managing expectations. The announcement is next Thursday, and I don't want you getting your hopes up only to be disappointed."

"I won't be disappointed," Miranda stated with absolute certainty. "I'm going to win, Veronica. I can feel it."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.

"Well, confidence is certainly part of your charm," Veronica said finally. "Now, about the Bellisima shoot next week—they've requested a specific hairstyle. I'll have Margo email you the reference images."

They discussed business for a few more minutes before ending the call. Miranda placed her phone down, Veronica's cautionary words already dismissed from her mind. Of course she would win. How could she not?

She returned to her bedroom and looked again at the silver gown she'd selected for her inevitable victory. She touched the fabric reverently, imagining how it would catch the light as she walked onstage to accept her award.

In her mind, she began updating her acceptance speech once more, imagining the perfect combination of humility and self-assurance that would cement her image as both relatable and aspirational.

*I stand before you tonight honored and humbled by this recognition...*

No, that wasn't right. She wasn't actually humbled by it. She deserved it.

*I accept this award with gratitude and with the knowledge that beauty such as mine carries both privilege and responsibility...*

Better, but still not quite right.

*Thank you for this award, which confirms what I've always known—that I was born to stand in the spotlight, to represent an ideal of beauty that inspires and elevates...*

Yes, that was it. Honest without being off-putting. Confident without being arrogant. The perfect balance for the perfect winner.

Miranda smiled at her reflection, practicing the exact expression she would wear when her name was called. Not too surprised—she wouldn't insult the judges by suggesting their choice was unexpected—but not too smug either. Just the right blend of gratification and grace.

"And the Rising Star Award goes to..." she whispered, mimicking an announcer's voice, "Miranda Beaumont!"

She walked toward her mirror, accepting an imaginary trophy, and faced her reflection with a practiced smile.

"What can I say when I am so beautiful and great?" she whispered to herself one final time. "Nothing. I don't need to say anything at all. My presence speaks for itself."

She turned away from the mirror, picked up her clutch, and headed for the door. The world was waiting, and Miranda Beaumont never kept her admirers waiting.