Hello! I am Endless-Story, and this is my first ever story here at FictionPress. This story is actually meant for the teenaged group. (Ages 13-17 apprx.) Basically, it's a story I came up with when I was rather young, and I've just now developed it into what it is. For an introduction, it is basically circled around two models, Nikki Nicole and Amy Hage. Nikki has been a model her entire life, and is pretty much a natural born model. Amy, on the other hand, has never modeled in her life, but just happens to nail a top job because of her beautiful red hair. In conclusion, the two become rivals in rival modeling companies. However, throw in some more rivals, some jealousy, and of course, romance, and these girls may have more on their minds than beating each other.

Also, for a note, this story will be told from the point of view from different characters. For example, this one is told from Nikki's point of view, so it says "Nikki Nicole: Broken Heels and Broken Dreams". Her name is there for you to know who is telling the story, and of course, the rest is the actually chapter title.

Well, I do believe I have talked enough, have I not? Enjoy!

Nikki Nicole: Broken Heels and Broken Dreams

I knew right away that the day was going to be bad. It was obvious, beginning with the moment my heel broke off, right away at eight o'clock in the morning. My latte spilled all over me, causing me to let out a little scream. Sure, it was just a little spill, but it was still enough to stain the tip of my skirt.

Slipping my foot out of my now-broken shoe, I bent down and picked it up, examining it. The long, thin heel had snapped right off, leaving only the golden beaded base of the shoe.

"Not good," I mumbled to myself, and tried my hardest to retain myself. I tossed my orange-tinted brown hair over my shoulder, pulled out my compact, checked my face in the mirror, slipped the shoe back on my foot, held my latte in front of myself, and continued up the steps. Bringois was going to have to fix it, anyway.

"Nikki, you're late," Bringois was quick to notice as I slid in the door.

"I'm sorry," I said, throwing my purse on my chair, "I had to stop and get a latte."

"Only to spill it on yourself!" Bringois cried, but then took my hands, "Let me see those nails…Have you been biting them again?"

"Only the thumb!" I cried taking my hands back from him, "I'm sorry Bringois, honestly I am, but I'm so nervous!"

"Of course you are," he said softly, "Today's a big day for you."

"And it hasn't started off the best," I said, removing my shoe, "Look at this!"

He took the shoe from me, inspecting it with a disgusted look on his face.

"I'll talk to the makers," he just said, tossing the shoe aside, "Come with me now."

He took my arm and led me through some curtains, to the back, where Sophie, his assistant stood. She smiled upon seeing me, and brought out a sparkly, lime-green dress.

"This is the best you have?" I said, taking the thin strip of fabric in my arms, examining it.

"This dress is worth about three thousand dollars," Bingois said, rolling his eyes at me, "It's top fashion."

I handed it back to Sophie, and said, "I was thinking of something a little more classy."

"This is the dress your mother picked out," Bingois said, "Nikki, you need to do as told. This isn't some pageant. This is the real deal. You only get one chance, and can't turn on your charm, hoping to charm the judges. There won't be any judges. You'll walk out, in this dress, walk to the end, and model."

I took the dress again, holding it out, my colored-contact eyes scanning it over. My real eyes were brown, but according to Bingois, green eyes were in. And not just normal green eyes, but very light green eyes.

"And for shoes?" I said, looking up from the dress.

"These," Sophie said, holding up a pair of matching green high-heels.

"Those I can live with," I said, taking them as well, "And are these to match my eyes?"

"Of course," Bingois said with a smile, "Now go try it on. We'll need to get it fitted.

I sighed and went into the dressing room, sliding off my stained skirt and designer top, and slid the tight green dress over my head.

It looked better on, I had to say. I smiled at my reflection, looking at the dress. It did perfectly match my eyes. It had one thin strap keeping it up, and was shorter on the side with the strap, while flaring out longer on the side into ruffles. On the ruffles were sparkled beads, giving it an overall sparkly feeling.

I put the shoes on, which also matched perfectly. I wondered for a while how they matched things so perfectly, but ended up forgetting about it, and heading out of the dressing room.

"Gorgeous," Bingois said, "See, that's not so bad, now, is it?"

"No," I said, twirling, and watching the ruffle flare out, "It's quite lovely, actually."

"Now for makeup," Sophie said, taking my hand, only to stop to look at my nails, "Have you been biting them again?"

I started to say only my thumbs, but Bingois interrupted, saying, "We'll have to put fake ones on."

"What about hair?" I said, as we walked toward the salon area of the studio.

Bingois looked at the hair on my head, and said, "Everything looks to be in order. We're planning on just curling the edges a little.

"And pulling these sides back," Sophie said, taking the sides of my hair and pulling them back.

She released my hair and led me to the salon, where I sat in my usual chair. Sophie placed the usual pink plastic around me, and Bingois got to work immediately on my hair.

A magazine was handed to me, and as I sat back and scanned over the people in the magazine, realizing that they were much more unfortunate than I, I couldn't help but feel…well, comfortable.

My mother had been the top model of her time, as her mother before her. The name Nicole was always associated with the top models, or at least to anybody who knew anything.

Nikki Nicole. Sure, it was a corny name, but it got me places. It became apparent at a young age that I was meant to be the next top model. I had won my first pageant before I could walk. My cute, chubby little baby face adorned endless covers of magazines, and the world had seen me naked on numerous diaper commercials. When selfish stars gave birth to ugly babies, I was put in place of them, adorning the celebrity in magazines and tabloids alike.

At the age of five, I won the national children's pageant, and got third place in the worldwide pageant, losing to some brat from London and a four-year-old from Tokyo. Other than that, I hadn't lost much.

I had been born in New York City, of course, but had spent much of my time between London and Paris, mostly accompanying my mother on her own trips.

Not only was my mother a big-name in the modeling business, but my father as well. As my father explained it to me over the phone during their divorce, when I was eleven, they had met at a runway event, and when my mother agreed to model for him and only him, they became fast lovers, had a quick marriage, and had me…Only to later realize they weren't in love with each other necessarily, but rather my mother was in love with his clothes, and my father in love with the way his clothes looked on my mother.

After the divorce, I never did see my father again, unless a few yearly visits over the internet via web cam count. His life in Madrid, Spain is much more important than I am, anyway. Not that it matters. My own self is more important than he is to me as well. It balances out, I believe.

As for my mother, she quit modeling after the divorce, and became my full-time manager. She hired Bingois and Sophie, both friends from her years in Paris, and came to me, when I was at the age of fourteen, and told me that I would become a model as well.

Perhaps I was ridiculously naïve at the time, but I still remember sitting on the floor of my old apartment in New York, the place I had called home for years, painting my nails and bragging to my friends that I was going to become a model.

Despite my false ego though, there had been something in me that hadn't wanted to go through with my mother's plans. What could I do though?

As I left high school, with only a little bit of outside tutoring (School really wasn't my thing, anyway), I began to realize that in reality, I was quite lonely.

I celebrated my sixteenth birthday all by myself, flying from London back to New York. Christmas of my sixteenth year was spent alone in a hotel suite in Los Angeles where I watched movies of families celebrating traditional Christmases.

I reminded myself that that had only been a year ago. I was seventeen now, my birthday having been in late February. Christmas had only been a few—what, less than six?—months ago.

Closing my eyes, I reminded myself that after this day, all of that would change.

It had happened a week ago, when I was on vacation in Hawaii. I was sitting on a pavilion, reading a magazine, and eating a popsicle, when my phone rang. It was my mother, and she announced to me that I was to fly straight back to New York

It was this new boutique. Although new, it was destined to become the next major fashion industry worldwide, and they were looking for someone to be their cover girl, their it girl, a girl who was destined to become the next top model of the world.

I was destined to be that top model.

"Are you set?" Sophie asked me, brushing my bangs to the side. I looked at myself in the mirror, and taking a deep breath, said, 'yes'.

From there, everything was a blur.

It was late May, the perfect modeling season. Swim suit season wasn't my favorite, but by late May, most of those types of shoots were over. School would be getting out, not that it mattered to me. I would never graduate, and even if I did, I wouldn't be allowed to go to graduation.

Yes, it sounds like I'm bitter, but really I'm not. There's no reason to be. I was blessed with this perfect lineage of modeling, fortunate enough to be born into riches, and was quite good at living my life the way I was living it.

The place was called Jasmine Flowers. A lady named Jasmine Flowers had started it, gathering up her designs, her money (she was apparently quite wealthy, as designers must be), and an amazingly attractive childhood friend named Alec Peters, who had quickly grown in name as she had. Basing herself on just her designs and Alec's amazing—well, everything—she began Jasmine Flowers. It must sound as if it were absolutely not destined for greatness, but Jasmine Flowers had what it took. She kissed the butt that needed to be kissed, and met the people she needed to meet. But I suppose I've already made that pretty clear, haven't I?

Still, it hadn't done well at first. She continued working, however, and soon, her small company made up of friends and Alec became the largest name in all of New York, and soon to be the world.

And now, they were holding auditions for their cover girl. I was a shoe-in. I knew it, they knew it, and my mother knew it. The world knew it.

So how things went wrong, I don't know…

First was my interview, with not Jasmine Flowers herself, but rather a spokesperson, one who happened to be a close friend of my mother's. I nailed it beautifully, practically insuring myself the part. Next was the runway, in which myself and millions of nervous girls did a quick runway walk. Again, a large nail for me. It wasn't even close to being my first runway.

I then had to have a few shots taken of me, which was again, no big deal. After all that, I was ushered away from all of the noise and confusion to the 'finalist' area, and was to sit in this lovely room, awaiting the final interview with Jasmine Flowers herself.

However, I never received the chance to talk with her.

I was smiling to myself, listening to some nervous girls chatting excitedly about how they were sure they would get the part, when something unimaginable occurred. Jasmine Flowers was running ten minutes late for our interview, which was annoying me, and I had been wondering what was taking so long for her to interview whoever was already in the room.

The door finally came open, and out stepped a girl who I assumed to be a low-life worker, or something. She was tall and thin, sure, but there was something horrid about the way she carried herself. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and jeans. The only thing noticeable about her was her flaming red hair.

It was thick and curly, but very unlike any other red hair I had seen before. Usually 'red heads' are actually orange-heads. But this girl's hair really was red.

My initial thought upon seeing her was that it had been simply dyed, but closer examination of her face led me to realize that it could be natural. That red of hair couldn't look good on anybody unless it was natural, and it surely did look good on her.

Her eyes were green, contrasting lovely with her hair. She had medium-toned skin, not the signature pale skin of normal red-heads.

Her cheeks were burning red, matching her hair. I scoffed to myself, thinking of how much more fortunate I was, to have my lovely died mix of brown and orange hair, and my own fake eye-colored green eyes—which look, I must tell you, much better than any real colored eyes.

Of course, all of this thinking was soon to end.

"Attention everybody," a lady came out then, who was dressed in a green-colored suit, and had black hair and gaudy red lipstick, "I am Jasmine Flowers."

I realized then, that it was my first time actually seeing her. I had heard her on radios and read her words in interviews, but I had never seen her. Right away, I mentally noted how odd this was. She was a big name in the fashion business, and yet I had yet to see her. And she wasn't even all that fashionable. Her suit did not contrast well with her hair, and the red lipstick made her look as if she was dressed for Christmas, but had no red to go with her green. In a sense, she reminded me of the hideous girl's look…

The girls began to chat excitedly and were all rather wide-eyed at seeing the biggest name in fashion. The red-haired girl simply stood there, blushing. I wanted to yell at her to stop, for it was making her hair seem even stranger, even redder. Of course, I held it in.

"I'm proud to introduce to you all," Jasmine Flowers said, "the next top model."

What? I thought, I haven't even had my interview yet! Oh well, she probably already knew…

"Amy Hage!" Jasmine Flowers said, her smile growing wide, and to my horror, she was pointing to the red-haired girl, who in return, was staring at her feet.

All of the girls in the room were suddenly quiet, all staring in amazement at the blushing red-head.

It had to be some joke, I told myself. It just had to be!

"Thank you all for coming," Jasmine Flowers continued into the silence, "But Amy is exactly the girl I was looking for. You are all free to leave."

Most of the girls stood up, and shuffled out, all now whispering softly to each other. I couldn't move though. This had to be a joke. That couldn't be Jasmine Flowers, and that girl could not be their next model. It was simply impossible.

"Excuse me," I said, standing up, "I'm Nikki Nicole. Perhaps you've heard of my mother?"

Ms. Flowers just stared at me, looking puzzled.

She finally smiled and said, "Ah, yes, it's nice to meet you."

"Um, I've been modeling my entire life," I continued, suddenly not knowing what else to say."

"That's nice," Ms. Flowers said, "I'm sorry, but Amy and I have a lot of work to do. It was very nice meeting you, Miss Nicole."

"Ms. Flowers," I said, forcing myself to laugh, "It's okay, I know this is just a joke. You can tell me right now…I got the job. Okay? When do I start?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Nicole, but the only model I'm hiring today is Miss Hage."

My mouth dropped.


"Is there something wrong?" Ms. Flowers just interrupted me, "Perhaps you can call my secretary. Goodbye Miss Nicole. Come now, Amy. We have a lot of work to do."

With that, she ushered Amy Hage out of my sight, leaving me standing there, unable to move.

I must have stood in that spot for a good ten minutes, before it finally hit me. I had lost. I had lost to that hideous Amy Hage. That ugly girl—oh, who was I kidding? She was beautiful.

I don't know if I cried, because my thoughts were too mixed up, but I walked out of that room, unable to think of anything.

Suddenly, I was stopped by a very fashionable middle-aged woman, who said straight away, "Hello Miss Nicole. My name is Yvette Evenson, designer and founder of Yvette Inc. Would you be interested in modeling as my main model?"

I simply stared at her, unable to think. Of course I had heard of Yvette Inc. But compared to Jasmine Flowers, how would it fare? It used to be at the top until recently, and I had to admit, I did like their designs.

"We promise," Yvette continued, "to pay you more than Miss Amy Hage ever makes."

"I don't care about the pay," I said, probably in defeat, because that wasn't true, "I only want to model for Jasmine Flowers."

Yvette smiled, and said, "Ah, but you know…we'll be the main rivals. And with you against that newcomer…there will be no competition."

I had to say, I liked this woman's pizzazz.

"I'll have to talk with some people," I said, smiling, "But I'll be in touch."

"Together," Yvette said as she handed me her card, "We'll beat both Jasmine Flowers and Amy Hage into the ground."

I smiled an equally evil smile to match Yvette's, and said, "I'd love to."

Still, there was something inside me that couldn't have been more upset.


"I don't understand it!" I cried, tears streaming down my eyes, making me thankful that my mascara was water-proof, "She's a nobody! Some girl straight out of high school!"

"At least you still got a job," Sophie said, as she delicately painted my nails.

"Yeah, at Yvette Inc.! Jasmine Flower is the name, Sophie! Everybody knows that! This stupid red-head is going to be the top model, I guarantee it! I don't understand how she beat me out?"

"Her hair is magnificent," Bingois said softly, and it was the first thing I'd heard him say in the longest time.

"It is not!" I shot at him.

"Don't kid yourself Nikki," he said softly, "It is. She's naïve. She's sweet. She's what they were looking for. She will go far."

"What about me?" I screamed, "We're just going to give up on everything? I dropped out of high school for this! I quit! I gave everything up! I gave my life up!"

"Did I say it was over?" Bingois snapped at me.

"Then you have a plan?" I asked, leaning back, somewhat satisfied.

"You will have to steal the spotlight from her," Bingois said, "She may be hot now, but her red hair won't last forever. Neither will her green eyes. And she won't be naïve for long, either. Let the fame get to her. She won't be able to handle it."

"So your plan is like Yvette's," I mused.

"And I think it's a good one," Bingois said, nodding, "It'll put both Yvette and you on the top."

"Alright," I said softly, "I'm going to go for it. I'm going to become the next top model, whether I'm with Jasmine Flowers or not."

"Now we're talking," Bingois said, smiling, "Go get some rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day."