It is a common misconception that a model's life is glamorous. There is a sad, misguided idea that travels through people's thoughts, a belief that every model lives their life in comfort and beautiful clothing. The truth could not be more different, Deanna thinks. Two stylists are hurriedly slipping a green silk gown over her head, pulling it lower until it is on properly. One woman runs a brush through Deanna's brown hair, and another applies a thin line of gold eyeliner to her upper eyelids. The pounding music is giving her a headache, and the structured chaos around Deanna jostles and shakes her. Being a model, usually, is an irritation. Especially when you have two rotations in Milan. Only the best get two rotations during fashion week. Most models walk six times, each in a different outfit. The great models, the ones who are versatile, who can subtly change their demeanor with every appearance on the catwalk, the very best models, they get the stressful honor of two rotations. Deanna catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and appreciates the dress she's showcasing. It is an emerald silk dress with a plunging neckline. The dramatic V stops just above her navel, and the fabric is loose around her chest and abdomen, becoming more defined and slender as it reaches her hips, then flaring out again. It was beautiful.

Her stylist jumps in front of Deanna and waves her hand in front of Deanna's face. "Earth to Deanna, you're on next, get your ass in gear."

Deanna sticks her tongue out at Jo, but gets into position nonetheless. She's already finished her first rotation, now she's beginning her second. Standing just in the doorway of the dressing room, Deanna takes a deep breath. The model before her struts down the walk, her hips sashaying left and right, and then she turns the corner into the dressing room. Stylists descend on her like a pack of vultures, stripping her of her clothing and pulling her hair from her bun, but Deanna doesn't see that. Deanna is already on the catwalk, long strides bringing her closer and closer to the end of the strip. All around her the music blares, and cameras flash. In the front row there are several prestigious designers. They usually search for new models during fashion week. The most intimidating designer, Crowley, had been there in New York and London, too. Obviously he hadn't decided what he was looking for. When Deanna reaches the end of the strip, she pivots gracefully on her foot, brings her left arm up, elbow pulled in close and hand displayed outward as if she were carrying a tray. The applause gets louder, and Deanna gracefully lets her arm drop back to her side, and struts back down the walk. Deanna didn't sashay, that wasn't her style. She had a power about her, a force of strength. She was always fierce and collected on the walk, and they loved her for it. She turns the corner into the dressing room, and instantly the strut disappears, she hurries to Jo in a stilted motion, damn these ridiculously impractical heels. Jo quickly helps her out of the dress, and Deanna is left standing in her heels and panties while Jo slips the the plastic off her next dress. There are four more walks and then her turn again. All around her models are being dressed up like dolls, their hair fixed and faces being painted. As Jo pulls the dark purple fabric over Deanna's head, she talks.

"You would not believe the things they're saying about you getting a second rotation. You'd think they had nothing better to worry about than people who do their job better."

Deanna snorts. "Yeah, talking like that is definitely going to make them feel better about it." Jo just smirks and adjusts the dress. Now Deanna is wearing a plum colored halter mini. It's pretty, but Deanna would never wear something like this anywhere but the catwalk. Deanna loved her career, she really did. Adored being dressed and painted and then strutting, she loved the attention. But she was practical. When she was home, she wore jeans and T-shirts that were often a size too big. Deanna only wore model worthy clothing when she was modeling. Her publicist, Ellen, cringed when she went out in public with her favorite T-shirt on. So she spilled a little bleach on her Black Sabbath shirt, it wasn't like she wore it during a shoot.

"D, hello, listen to me." Jo snapped, grabbing Deanna's face and turning it towards the light. Deanna sighed and parted her lips so Jo could apply the burgundy lipstick. "So, I was saying, there are rumors going around."

Deanna raised an eyebrow, and Jo continued, multitasking like a pro. She swiftly pulled Deanna's hair up into a bun and said, "Apparently, two models were cut from Paris." Paris was the last fashion week of the season, and being cut from that week would be devastating, both to a model's ego and career. "And, none of the designers withdrew either, so why would they be cut?" Deanna frowned as another model left the strip and began their outfit change.

"Jo, just tell me I have to be on the strip soon."

Jo sighed and added a light brush of purple blush to each cheek bone. "I heard that someone was given two rotations in Paris." Deanna gave her a look that clearly read, just fucking say it as she walked towards the strip, she would be on in a few seconds. The model before Deanna neared the end of the strip, and Deanna pinched Jo as she adjusted the dress again.

"They're saying it's Castielle."

Deanna didn't have time to say anything, it was her turn and she was already walking the strip. Her face betrayed no inner turmoil as she showed off the halter mini. She reached the end of the strip. Pose, hand on hip, turn, turn, pivot. Cameras flash and a voice over the speakers says whose dress she's wearing. She walks back, her legs straight and elegant. She looks very good in this one, and she knows it. She reaches the end of the strip and enters the dressing room, instantly rushing to Jo.

"What?" she hisses. Jo just nods sympathetically and orders, "Arms up." Deanna lifts her arms so Jo can shimmy the dress up and off of her. "Are you sure it's Castielle? I mean she wasn't in London or New York, what was it the papers said?"

Jo grabs a wipe and quickly removes Deanna's lipstick. "Family obligations. Yeah, I know. But that's not even the worst part." Jo grabs the next outfit, a black and gold strapless dress. Deanna cringes. It's one of the worst kinds to get on. Skin tight. She follows Jo's prompts and manages to pull the dress over her head, and down into place. It is so damn tight, Deanna is forced to take shallow breaths. Vertical gold stripes accentuate her curves, making her waist look narrow and her bust fuller. Jo seems to forget she was speaking, and quickly applies black lipstick to Deanna's lips.

"What's the worst part?" Deanna urges. Jo shoots her a sharp look and says, "Don't talk, I'm not done with your lips." She grabs a small brush and a tiny pot of gold shimmer, and adds a little gold to Deanna's mouth.

"Crowley is going to be in Paris." Deanna starts to open her mouth, but Jo glares, and continues. "Not just to watch, but to pick up new models for his line coming next season. Like, actually choose at the show, have them come and sign. Again, rumor is he has narrowed it down to a few models, and Paris will be the final decision maker."

Deanna's heartbeat quickens. What if he wanted her? What if Crowley chose her? That would be the pinnacle of her modeling career. To be chosen by Crowley, to showcase his designs, would be utter gold. Then her stomach drops. Castielleis going to be in Paris, with a double rotation. The double rotation itself, not so bad. Deanna had a double in Paris as well. What worried her, was the fact that it was Castielle. Everyone loved Castielle, everyone. When she wasn't on the runway, she was ladling soup at homeless shelters, or donating huge amounts of money to charities and churches. In her interviews she was always so humble, like she didn't understand what the big fuss over her was. For young girls, she was a role model, for men, a dream. Castielle had shown up a few years ago, discovered by a scout. She had quickly climbed the ladders of the industry and was now in the major leagues. Deanna had met Castielle on several occasions. The two of them were so sought after that they often ended up in shoots together. Oh, how precious those memories were. Castielle was always so calm and quiet, imagine Deanna's surprise when she managed to get a rise out of her. Deanna excelled at two things in life; Modeling, and pissing people off. They were rivals, both in the industry, and as human beings. Apparently, Deanna brought out a competitive streak in Castielle. She just hoped that wouldn't hurt her chances with Crowley in Paris.

Jo brings her attention back to the runway show. "You're on after Sadie, go get in line."

The rest of the night passes in a blur. When Deanna and Jo return to their hotel room, both are exhausted. Deanna tries to get to the shower first, but Jo punches her and jumps behind the curtain. Jo turns on the water and throws her clothes out of the shower, onto the bathroom floor. Deanna looks in the mirror. Her face is smooth, no blemishes or uneven color. Her eyes are bright and green, her lips pink and full. Jo was a master with makeup, she had completely erased Deanna's smattering of freckles, and evened her skin tone. The dark smudges beneath her eyes are nonexistent. Deanna looked perfect, airbrush perfect. Without flaws. It's horrible. She barely looks like a human being. She grabs a hotel washcloth and Jo's bottle of makeup remover. The oily liquid makes quick work of all the makeup, and soon the washcloth is skin colored with streaks of black from her eyelashes. After removing every bit of makeup from her skin, Deanna takes another washcloth and begins to wash her face. After rinsing the suds from her skin, she looks into the mirror again.

Now she has light freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks, and bruises beneath her eyes. She yawns tiredly, and stretches her back. "Tell me when you're finished Jo, I'm going to make a phone call." She says as she leaves the bathroom.

Deanna rummages through her bag for her cell phone. She was going home tomorrow after an interview with Fierce and Fashionable, and she was really looking forward to it. Finding her phone, she hits speed dial one and walks to the balcony. One of the many perks of being a renowned model in Milan, the great view from her hotel room.

Sam answers on the second ring. "Hey Deanna."

"Sammy, we have a problem."

Concern colors her brother's voice. "What? What's wrong?"

"Castielle is doing a double rotation in Paris and Crowley is choosing his models based on the Paris fashion week. She's going to show up and 'wow' everyone with her pale ass skin and black hair and then she's probably going to kill it at the interview with her stories of rescuing kittens from trees and Crowley's going to pick her and if I get passed over by Crowley then I'll probably get picked up by Jason Wu and I don't want to model for Wu I want to model for Crowley-"

"Wait, Deanna, calm down."

"Sammy don't you understand? If Castielle really is in the Paris-"

"If?"

"Well, yeah. I mean I don't know for sure if she's going to be there, or if Crowley is really choosing then, but that's what people are saying."

"So, what you're saying is that you were listening to rumors, and now you're freaking out over something that may not even be true."

"Uh, yeah."

"What are you, thirteen? Just chill out. You have plenty of time to freak out once you figure out if it's true or not."

"Thanks, that really makes me feel better."

"Besides. If you don't want to model for Wu then don't. I can probably sign you with Marc Jacobs, if you'd prefer."

"I want to wear Crowley's designs. I want to sign with Crowley, Sam. I would sell my soul to Crowley just to be his model. I would sell it in a heartbeat."

"I don't think he's in the soul business, but I'll pass that along that your soul is up for trades."

"Funny. Anyways, are you picking Jo and I up from the airport?"

"No, I'm picking up Jo. You can find your own ride home."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Deanna can feel her brother's smirk as he hangs up the phone, and she smiles and shakes her head. Jo calls her name from the bathroom, and Deanna leaves the chilly balcony. A shower, bed, an interview tomorrow morning. Then, home. Blessed home.

The interview was not what Deanna was expecting. The man interviewing her was pretty ballsy, to say the least.

"So, I hear you're pretty unloved by the other models. What did you do to piss the ladies off?"

Deanna stares at the short man sitting across from her. He was relaxed, lounging in the chair as he waited for her to answer his question. On the coffee table separating Deanna from the interviewer sat a small tape recorder and a handful of fun sized snickers bars.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the question." Deanna says, hesitantly. This guy has got to be joking, like she can really answer that in a Fierce and Fashionable interview. This magazine's readers are known for turning on models once they have one slip up. There is no right answer to this question, it's a trap. This utter asshole.

The interviewer, Gabriel, leans forward, grabs a fun sized snickers and repeats. "The models don't like you, I want to know why! Did you try and vote them off the island?"

Deanna is stuck. If she doesn't answer, she's chickenshit. If she says she didn't know they hated her, she's a liar. If she says the truth, that she was given two rotations because she's fantastic at what she does, then she's egotistical. Deanna puts on her brightest smile, and answers.

"I'm sorry to hear that I'm so hated, I'll be honest; no one has ever told me that before. I guess if I had to think of a reason other models didn't like me, I would have to say it's just competition. This is a very competitive industry. It's impossible to be a model and not have a problem with another model."

Gabriel grins at her and unwraps his candy. "So, if that's the case, who's the model you have the most problems with?"

Deanna stares at him. Is this an interview? Or a cleverly disguised trap? She's half convinced to check the ground for any suspicious spots covered by twigs and leaves. The infuriating little man just keeps grinning at her, chewing his little chocolate like he isn't trying to destroy her fanbase with a single interview.

"Well, I'm not sure problem is the right word. I think that most models' 'problem' with other models, is really just a grudging respect and a little bit of, how come she does that better than me? I want to do it like her."

A slight wave of irritation passes over Gabriel's features, and Deanna smirks at him. If he wanted to play games, she was ready to bring it. There were no cameras in this interview, just the tape recorder. So modeling wasn't going to help her in this situation, but her ability to cause everyone around her large amounts of anger? That's a muscle she loves to flex.

Gabriel must notice the challenge in her eyes, because he suddenly tosses the wrapper on the coffee table, and smiles serenely.

"So who is it you want to be more like? Who is it you try to be?" and that little shit, he's a journalist for F&F, he knows how important it is for supermodels to be individual and unique. But then again...this could help her. If Crowley was looking for new models, and he was considering Castielle, it might be a good thing to seem like they were on good terms. Most people knew that their few shoots together had ended in frustrating arguments and anger, but here was a chance to use Castielle to Deanna's advantage.

Deanna smiles back, so sweetly it makes her want to vomit. "Honestly?"

"Honesty is the best policy."

Deanna sighs dramatically. "Well, I would probably never be able to admit it to her face," Gabriel lifts an eyebrow, because they both know that if it goes in the magazine, every model worth his or her salt is going to see it. Which is the point. "but, I just adore Castielle's work. She's beautiful, and she is such a nice person, it's so refreshing to see someone so down to Earth."

Gabriel seems to be visibly restraining laughter. After a moment, he collects himself enough to comment. "I heard you two didn't get along though! If you were such a fan of Castielle, why the tension between you two? Besides the obvious reasons, of course. I mean, everyone knows that the two of you are each other's biggest competition."

That dick. Everyone loves a good rivalry, so she had to make this question memorable, while still making it seem like she had a big 'ol crush on Castielle, while still keeping herself from sounding conceited. He was playing hardball now.

"Well that's just flattering, when you think about it. For my biggest competition in the industry to be someone I admire? That means I must be doing something right."

She flashed him her biggest shit eating grin. He nodded back, like she had gained some level of respect.

"Alright then, well, how about your family? How have they been, while you've been traveling to different fashion shows?"

Deanna smiled, she loved her family, small as it might be. "Well, my brother is doing great, we actually talked last night. I'm going home later today, and I can't wait to see him."

"Now, he's actually your lawyer as well, isn't he?"

"Yes he is. He's also a part time giant, farmers hire him to keep wolves away from their livestock. It's awful, because the schedules really conflict."

Gabriel let out a real laugh, a deep belly laugh that made Deanna chuckle too.

"No, but seriously." she continues, smiling affectionately. "He is my lawyer, and he's such a bitch about it. He'll try and get me to go to the store for him or something, and when I say no, he pulls out some technical term, like he's gonna sign me with Disney Channel if I don't obey Sammy's every want and need."

Gabriel laughs again, and the tension in the room ebbs, away. It no longer feels like an interview, just a chat with a new acquaintance.

"And you have an uncle, as well?"

"Yup. Bobby. He's crabbier than a sour apple, but he's my uncle."

"What does he do for a living? Is it model related? You seem to have a plethora of friends and family that help you with your career, I hear you're very close with your stylist and publicist, as well."

"Oh, God no, Bobby doesn't come near modeling with a ten foot pole. He doesn't get it, doesn't want to. And I am close with my Jo and Ellen, we became good friends once we met a few years ago, and I wouldn't trade them for anything."

The rest of the interview goes smoothly, and Deanna makes a few more wisecracks about Sam. Gabriel finds these immensely funny, and when Deanna shakes his hand at the end, he gives her a genuine grin, and tells her he's always looking for a new lawyer, and a part time giant wouldn't be too bad either.

All in all, when Deanna meets Jo at the airport and they board their flight, she's feeling pretty good. Not relaxed, she's still tense and sore from a week of strutting in tight clothes and monstrous heels, but she's calm, and happy. Jo asks to borrow her iPod, and she tosses it in her lap. Deanna puts on a pair of large sunglasses, reclines her seat enough to be comfortable without being rude to the seat behind her, and goes to sleep.

When the plane lands, thirteen hours later, Deanna is not in the mood for any bullshit. She's tired, cranky, and spent the last five hours of the flight being flirted at by some rich old man who thought she'd be easy. Deanna had spilled his drink on his lap three times, "accidentally". He still hadn't taken the hint. So when Jo and her are standing on the sidewalk, holding all their bags and suitcases, and some idiot boy who thinks he's funny decides it would be a good idea to grab her ass, she loses it. She fucking loses it. The guy is snickering to his friend and already walking away when Deanna spins around, grabs him by the arm and turns him back to face her.

"Whoa, lady, all you had to do was ask-" his egotistical words are shoved back down his throat by Deanna's fist. His friend stumbles away from her with a, "Oh, shit," and Jo doubles over, laughing. The guy curses at her, and takes a few steps back while he brings his hand to his mouth. His fingers come away bloodied from his split lip.

"You little bitch-"

The small crowd that had gathered cringed, and Deanna rears back, and snaps her arm forward as hard as she can As he falls to the ground, moaning and cradling his face in his hands, two airport security guards rush towards her, the crowd parting hastily.

Deanna steps away from the guy on the ground and puts on her most innocent face.

"Ma'am, what's going on here?"

Deanna glances at the guy at on the ground, and smiles sweetly when she sees his eye is already swelling and changing color.

"I was defending myself, sir."

By now, Jo has stopped laughing and put on her serious face. "Yeah, I saw it happen. He came up and was sexually harassing her-" right then, Sam drives up behind Jo and quickly puts the car in park. The security guard looks from Deanna, to the man on the ground, to Jo, and Deanna fights a grin. Sammy would lawyer her ass out of this.

Sure enough, before the security guard could even begin to question the man Deanna punched, Sam was out of the car and next to Deanna.

"Deanna, what's going on?" it wasn't his, scolding my idiot sister voice, it was his, don't sass me, I'm a lawyer voice. Deanna bit her lip, smug grins were not going to help the situation.

The security guard didn't let her answer anyways. "Sir, this isn't your concern right now, please step aw-"

"Isn't my concern? This should have never happened on your watch. It's your job to make sure people are safe in this airport. Are you eve-"

The second security guard cut him off, and said, "Sir, we're going to have to ask you to calm down, and step away. This is between these two-"

Deanna looks at Sam, and then the guard, and says in her most innocent voice, "Oh, but he's my lawyer. Shouldn't he be involved if there is a sexual harassment problem?"

Both security guards glance at each other. No one moves for a moment, and then Sam reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a pen and scrap of paper. This jolts the man on the ground into action.

As he pulls himself upright, tries to casually wipe the blood off his chin, and mumbles, "Uh, you know what? I'm good, we're good." He starts to walk away, and the guard calls after him, hesitantly, "You can press charges, if you want?" but the man just shakes his head and quickens his pace.

The guards look back at Deanna and Jo, both visibility restraining laughter, and then to Sam, who has his pen poised over the paper and looks ready to kick ass and take names. After a moment of faltering over their words, the guards politely ask the three to be on their way, and then go back inside.

As soon as they disappear in the crowd of people, Deanna and Jo let out great peals of laughter, and Sam just shakes his head and stuffs his pen back into his pocket.

"Deanna, you've been back in the states for what, an hour? And you're already getting into trouble?"

Deanna just grins at Sam, and reaches up to ruffle his hair.

"Thanks for covering for me, Sammy. Now take us home."

On the other side of the world, Crowley sits with seven photographs. One is of a willowy girl with short, messy black hair. Her striking blue eyes are ringed in black, and black silk covers her body. This photo is from a photoshoot inspired by Black Swan. Crowley flips the photograph over and scribbles Castielle on the back.

The next photo he picks up is from Versace's summer photoshoot, and a tan, freckled woman is laughing, holding a floppy sunhat on her head with one hand, and letting the other dangle over the side of the dock, skimming the water with her fingertips. Crowley writes Deanna on this photo, and picks up the next.

This photo is from a Harajuka advertisement. A young woman is dressed in frills and bows, and stares at the camera with a childish, slightly bewildered look on her face. Her hair is a platinum blonde with highlights of pale lavender. Lilith is already written on the bottom of this photo, and Crowley reaches for another.

Crowley was particularly fond of this photoshoot. In the picture, a dark haired, dark eyed woman stand alone in a room with a large mirror behind her. The woman in the picture looks innocent, smiling at the white flower in her hand, but her reflection shows her differently. In the mirror, she wears a sultry red dress, and has a sinister smile on her lips. Her hands are poised in the same position, only instead of a flower in the reflection, she holds a human heart. Crowley smirks as he flips over the photo and writes, Ruby.

Crowley swirls the Craig in his glass as he selects another photo. In this one, a woman is coyly tugging on the tie of a man, pulling him towards her. His eyes are on her lips, but her other hand is behind his waist, a man's wallet held nimbly between two fingers. The designer sets down his glass of scotch and writes Bela on the corner of the photo.

Next, a photo of a pale woman with bright red hair. She is wrapped in a white, almost toga like dress. Her arms are thrown out to the sides, and her head is thrown back, her lips parted like she is whispering to the bright sky above her. White feathers float around her in this photo, and Crowley scribbles, Anael.

The next photo is of a sad looking woman with black, chin length hair. The photoshoot was done in a graveyard, and she is leaning against a tall stone carving of a hooded figure carrying a scythe. The woman is pale, and looks up at the stone figure almost like she recognizes it. Crowley writes Tessa, and sets it in the small pile of photographs.

He leans back in his chair, and smirks, satisfied. He picks up a phone from his desk, and dials the number for his assistant.

"I've chosen who I want, now go contact their agents." He hangs up the phone, not bothering to let the man on the other line answer. Crowley pours himself another glass of scotch, and sighs contentedly. He loved competitions; they always managed to bring out the worst in people. He couldn't wait to sit back and watch these little hell cats rip each other apart for a chance to be signed into a contract with him.