Lines Blur at London Fashion Week
The Chroma office transformed into a war room. London Fashion Week was upon them, and the air crackled with a new, more frantic energy. This wasn't just about closing an issue; it was about capturing a moment, defining a season. Luca was at the centre of the storm, a conductor of pure, controlled chaos, his voice a constant through the cacophony of ringing phones and frantic messengers.
Isla was assigned to backstage coverage at the Tate Modern for the highly anticipated, notoriously temperamental designer, Felix de Winter. Her job was to capture the atmosphere, the raw nerves, the fleeting moments of beauty before the models hit the runway.
Backstage was a special kind of madness. A labyrinth of clothing racks, steaming irons, and half-dressed models, all bathed in the harsh, unforgiving light of makeup mirrors. The air was thick with hairspray and tension. Isla moved through the chaos, notebook in hand, trying to be invisible.
Then, it happened. A sharp gasp, the sound of a body hitting the floor. Kaya, the opening model, had fainted, her head narrowly missing the corner of a steel table. Panic erupted. The head stylist, Margot, let out a strangled cry, clutching the delicate, beaded gown Kaya was meant to wear.
“She’s out! She’s out! The show starts in twelve minutes!” Margot wailed, her face ashen.
The producer was yelling into a headset. The makeup artist was frantically trying to revive Kaya. The entire, meticulously choreographed production was teetering on the edge of a very public, very expensive collapse.
Isla’s mind, usually a whirlwind of words, went quiet and still. She remembered a rack she’d passed earlier. A backup look from the final fitting—a stunning, sculptural dress in emerald green, not part of the main lineup but approved as an emergency option. It was bold. It was a statement.
Without a word, she turned and pushed her way back through the crowd. She found the dress, a heavy, beautiful weight in her arms. She marched up to the frantic Margot.
“Margot. Look at me. Put her in this.” Isla’s voice was calm, authoritative, cutting through the hysteria.
Margot stared at the dress, then at Isla, her eyes wide with shock.“But the sequence… the narrative…”
“The narrative is now‘the show must go on,’” Isla said firmly. She helped a stunned dresser guide the gown over the head of the replacement model, a young girl trying not to cry. Isla’s fingers, usually tapping at a keyboard, worked deftly, fastening hidden hooks and smoothing the rich fabric into place.“There. You’re stunning. Now breathe.”
As the model took her place at the top of the runway, the first chords of the show’s music thrummed through the space. The crisis was averted.
Isla slipped back into the shadows, her heart finally beginning to race now that the adrenaline was fading. She looked up and saw him.
Luca was standing at the edge of the backstage chaos, having just arrived from another show. He hadn’t seen the fall, but he had seen her. He had watched her take control, her calm decisiveness a stark contrast to the surrounding panic. His intense gaze was fixed on her, and in it, she saw something she’d never seen there before: pure, unadulterated awe.
He didn’t approach her then. There was no time. The show was starting. But later, as the team celebrated at a crowded, noisy after-party in a Soho loft, he found her. The music was loud, the air thick with champagne and success. He guided her by the elbow to a relatively quiet corner by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her, his stormy eyes searching hers. The noise of the party faded into a distant hum.
“You were magnificent today,” he said, his voice low and rough, meant only for her.“I heard what happened. Margot said you saved the show.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile on his lips.“You didn’t just save it. You were a leader. You were… incredible.”
He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. The touch was electric, a current that shut out the entire party.
“Isla,” he whispered, his face so close she could feel his breath.“I’m not just in love with you. I’m in awe of you.”
And there, surrounded by the beautiful, fleeting world they both lived for, he kissed her. It wasn’t a tentative question or a stolen secret. It was a claiming, a confession, a culmination. It was themost solid, real thing in the entire glittering city. The line was not just blurred anymore. It was gone.
Chapter 6:
The First Fight
The kiss changed everything. The world, once sharply divided into office and not-office, blurred into a continuous, thrilling landscape where Luca existed. Their relationship became a secret masterpiece, curated with the same precision they applied to a photoshoot. It lived in the margins: early mornings in his flat overlooking the Thames, his kitchen filled with the smell of coffee and the quiet rustle of the weekend papers; late nights in hers, takeaway containers on the floor, talking about everything but work.
It was perfect. Until it wasn't.
The problem was a feature on emerging British designers. Isla had championed a young, avant-garde designer from Glasgow, Rhiannon, whose work used recycled plastics in breathtakingly delicate ways. Luca was skeptical.
“It’s a gimmick, Isla. The‘eco-warrior’angle is played out. The construction is weak,” he declared in a Monday morning meeting, tossing the lookbook back onto the conference table.
Isla felt the critique like a physical blow.“It’s not a gimmick, it’s her philosophy. And the construction is innovative. It’s meant to be fragile, to comment on disposability.”
“Chroma isn’t an art school thesis. It’s a fashion magazine. We need to sell clothes, not concepts.” His tone was the one he used with junior vendors, dismissive and final.
“Since when is fashion not about concepts?” she shot back, her voice rising. The other editors around the table had gone very still.“Since when did we stop leading and start following?”
