The backstage area of Teatro alla Scala had been transformed into a gilded purgatory—a suffocating labyrinth of vanity mirrors wreathed in Hollywood bulbs, their unflinching glare exposing every stray lash and barely-concealed blemish. The air hung thick with the cloying perfume of hairspray and ambition, undercut by the acrid tang of nicotine clinging to velvet drapes. You sat perched on a rickety folding chair like some disgraced angel fallen from fashion Olympus, the structured boning of your Dolce & Gabbana corset digging into your ribs with each shallow breath, while the agency manager—a gaunt specter in head-to-toe Prada—unleashed her wrath upon the smoking sinners. Her stiletto tapped an executioner’s rhythm against the marble floors, each click echoing through the cavernous space like the ticking of Doomsday clock.

The vintage chandeliers trembled overhead, their crystal teardrops scattering prismatic light across the scene—illuminating Snejana Onopka's legendary bone structure as she pulled a face worthy of Medusa herself. Those otherworldly eyes rolled with the dramatic precision of a silent film star, her lips—painted the exact shade of freshly spilled Cabernet—curling into a smirk as she caught your gaze. The unspoken sisterhood of shared suffering passed between you in that glance, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of being scolded like schoolgirls when you'd all walked the runway for every major house from Paris to Milan.

Snejana—ever the queen of subtle rebellion—covertly produced a single cigarette from God-knows-where, balancing it between her fingers like a magician about to perform a sleight-of-hand trick. Her raised eyebrow was a silent dare. The manager had turned her attention to some poor Russian newcomer trembling in six-inch heels, leaving just enough of an opening for mischief. You leaned in as Snejana cupped her hands around the flame, the brief flare illuminating the hollows beneath her cheekbones, turning her into a Caravaggio painting come to life. The first drag was a sacrament—smoke curling from your nostrils like some dragoness in a McQueen ensemble, the nicotine hitting your bloodstream with the sweet relief of a sinner embracing damnation.

Around you, the chaos of final preparations continued unabated. A seamstress knelt at your feet, her mouth full of pins as she took in the hem of your skirt. The hairstylist reappeared with a can of hairspray so toxic it could probably strip paint, unleashing a cloud that hung in the air like industrial fog. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled sounds of the orchestra tuning up signaled that showtime was approaching—that sacred moment when all this madness would coalesce into something resembling art.

The manager's head snapped around like a shark catching scent of blood, her beady eyes zeroing in on the fresh plume of smoke rising above your heads. Snejana merely exhaled slowly, deliberately, shaping her lips into a perfect O as the smoke ring drifted upward to join the haze collecting near the frescoed ceilings. The unspoken challenge hung in the air between them—what could she really do, five minutes before the show? Replace two top models? A dresser appeared like a saving angel, whisking you away before war could break out. As you were steered toward the lineup, you caught one last glimpse of Snejana—still reclining in her chair like some decadent empress, one long leg crossed over the other, smoke curling around her face like a veil.

The music swelled. The lights dimmed. Somewhere beyond the heavy curtains, the front row awaited—editors with their razor-sharp pencils, buyers with their calculating eyes, Domenico and Stefano themselves perched like kings observing their court. You straightened your spine, lifted your chin, and prepared to walk into the light—the scent of rebellion still clinging to your skin like the most expensive perfume.