She was professionally attractive. Flown all over the world, one fashion week to the next, paid (and well) to march sullenly down the catwalk. But Mildred would never make the big time. Never land herself on the cover of Vogue or Sports Illustrated. It didn't matter that her hips and lips were flawless, divine; that her hair shimmered and her teardrop breasts bounced perfectly. There were plenty of others out there, just as gorgeous, but who didn't have the baggage of her name. Tatiana, Yvette, Melissa—no problem, you'll all be famous, girls. But Mildred?.

Her agent put his phone in his pocket and looked at her as the stylist flitted about. "They ran it on page 33," he sighed. Mildred glared. "Not changing it."