Runway Models in Collective Encounter

It was a lifelong dream come true and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. But, like all great things, it's fleeting, impermanent. And after three years as the top monitor in Paris, I was ready to move on. Could it have lasted longer? Maybe. But things got a little more complicated over time. A few months after our last story, the agency saw unprecedented growth. Each and every one of our models was in constant demand. So they scouted, and signed, and grew. And for a while, it looked like we were on top of the world. But in the end, we were victims to our own success. The problem with rapid growth is it's harder to keep track of the bad leaks. And, if left unpruned, they can infect the entire plant. Come in. You what? Wait. Eve, talk to me. What happened? I can't take this little fucking brat anymore. They never listen to anything. They fuck everything that moves. Clients, sponsors, janitors. I tried to be nice, but they don't even look at me until I yell. Every time I think of her, I just want to smash. Eve, I'm trying to understand you. But it's 15 minutes until showcase. Clock sticking. Ah, yes. Corsica. Attention, please. Listen up, bitches. That's how you do it. Thank you, Vanessa. So, before we enter this villa, we need to go over some ground rules for this weekend. No social media, which means no phones, no fighting, no drama in general, no excessive drinks, and no fucking the client. Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the client. Please, follow me. The fuck? Eve is going to be pissed.