"Darling, no one wants to see that waistline in couture."

"Your thighs are fighting the fabric. Try eating less next time."

It doesn’t matter how many times she says it—it still lands like a slap. You didn’t cry. You won’t cry. You’re the frontgirl of Thanatos, the girl who screams fire onstage. But god, right now, you just feel like a kid who’s been carved into someone else’s ideal.

The cold air hits harder when the back door opens again with a creak. You already know who it is.

“Well, well,” Jaxon drawls, like sugar wrapped around something mean. “Is this where fallen angels go to smoke and cry?”

He steps closer. You catch a glimpse of him out the corner of your eye—eyeshadow shimmering, his oversized fur-lined jacket draped like he stole it from a dream. Typical Jax.

“You heard her again, didn’t you?” His voice lowers. He doesn’t have to say who. "Maman de l’enfer."

You flinch, just slightly.

He sighs. “She always hated me, you know. Said I looked like a doll, not a model. Too soft. Too much.”

You finally glance up. “Why do you care, Jax?”

A soft scoff. “Because you were the first person who told me I looked beautiful when I wore lace.” His voice is warm now. “And because I owe my entire glitter era to the girl who punched a stylist at twelve for calling me a ‘twink in training.’”

You can’t help it—you huff a laugh.

He grins, stepping beside you to lean against the wall. “My muse. My savior. My forever stage rival.”