“We’ll be good dads.”
I stroked his cheek with the back of my hand. “The best. We’ll have a perfect family one day, Jae. You, me, and our two adorable children.”
He sighed happily. “Sounds perfect.”
My phone vibrated, interrupting our game. I checked it. “It’s my solicitor responding to my email.”
Jae sat upright and stared at me with big eyes. “And?”
I laughed. “Give me a sec to open it.”
He tapped his fingers together. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous. I really want this.”
“I know you do.” I opened the email and read her response. It was brief.
“Well?”
“She says the contract looks great.”
Jae shrieked. “Oh my God!”
“So, are you going to sign it?” I asked as Jae did a happy dance on the sofa.
“What kind of a question is that? Of course I’m going to sign it!” He stood and spun around. “I’m getting signed by McKay’s Models!”
My heart soared, sharing his infectious happiness. I caught hold of his hand, pulled him into my arms, and gave him the biggest, sloppiest kisses I could until he was howling with laughter.
“Do you know where I seeyouin two years?” I asked.
“No, where?”
“I see you being one of the highest-paid male models in the business. You’re going to be a star.”
EPILOGUE
JAE
The moment I was backstage, I ran to my clothing rail and, with help, got out of the two-toned cropped jacket, gloves, trousers, and hat I’d been wearing so I could put on my final outfit. I’d become a master of quick changes in the months since my first catwalk show. My walk had improved in leaps and bounds too. I still had to pinch myself before every show to prove it was real and this was my life.
I put on a pair of trousers with a dramatic crease down the front, smart black shoes, a pale-grey turtleneck that was going to be a bitch to model in, white elbow-length gloves, and a mid-grey coat made out of shiny material.
“Only the top button should be done up,” Stacy, one of the wardrobe assistants, said.
She added a scarf in matching fabric with pale-blue tassels and made sure the rosette on the lapel was fluffed to full effect.
“Stunning. Off you go. You’re third in the line-up.”
Third. I couldn’t believe it. One day, I hoped I’d be the first to step onto the catwalk.
I hurried to my place, held my head high to elongate my neck to show off the turtleneck, and began to walk. I matched my stride and pace to the men in front of me. We walked down the long runway as a commentator began to describe the outfits we were wearing and who they were by. The people who sat next to the stage stared up at us, writing on notepads. They were the press, the people we—and the clothes—had to impress the most.
The first model stopped at the end of the runway, which meant we all had to pause and pose. After a few seconds, he walked up the other side of the runway, and the rest of us rotated around.
It wasn’t long before I was the one at the top of the runway. Cameras flashed in my eyes, but I’d learnt not to close them. I cycled through my best poses, making sure I showed off every angle of the outfit I was wearing. The lights were hot, especially when wearing so many layers. My pulse quickened, and I felt a sense of euphoria. Modelling was everything I’d dreamt it would be.
Fleeting moments of being the centre of attention.
Feeling a million dollars in high fashion.
