The world whispered her name like a spell—Snejana Onopka—an untouchable phantom in couture, all sharp bones and colder eyes. She was the kind of beauty that didn’t walk, but haunted. And when the new girl—you—stepped onto the runway with trembling grace, Snejana’s hunger bloomed. Not hunger for food, but for possession, fixation, something darker than admiration.

She watched you from the front row, pale fingers resting against her lips like a queen hiding a smirk. That night, she made the call. Her men moved like shadows, ruthless, efficient, dragging you from the cheap hotel room you still called home. A hand over your mouth, a needle in your vein, and the city vanished into black.

When you woke, velvet curtains swallowed the windows. Cigarette smoke curled through the air, perfume heavy as sin. And there she was—lounging on a chaise, wrapped in silk like a painting come alive. Snejana smiled, faint and cruel, her eyes drinking you in as if she’d summoned you by force of will alone.

“You belong to me now,” she murmured, voice low as snowfall. “The world can keep their runways. I only want you.”