"The showing's about to start," I manage. "You should take your position."
"You're right. I should." She pauses. "Will you be watching?"
Always.
"It's my job to watch."
"Mm." That curve again. That devastating, maddening curve. "Then I'll make sure to give you something worth watching."
She walks away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Fuck.
I'm in so much trouble.
The showing begins at two sharp, and I have to give Greer Mackenzie credit—the woman knows how to command a room.
She takes the small stage at the end of the runway, elegant in black, and delivers a speech about innovation and heritage and the future of design.
The guests hang on every word.
Even I'm half-listening, though my eyes never stop scanning.
Then she introduces Dalla.
"My senior designer has been developing a collection that represents everything we believe in at this house. Bold. Uncompromising. Utterly original." Greer's gaze finds Dalla in the crowd. "I'm proud to present her work to you today."
Dalla steps forward, and I see her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
Nervous, but her voice is steady when she speaks, walking the guests through her inspiration, her process, the story behind each piece.
She's good.
Better than good.
She speaks about fashion the way Da speaks about protection—with absolute conviction that what she doesmatters.
The first model walks the runway, and a murmur ripples through the crowd.
Then another, and another.
I don't know enough to judge the clothes themselves, but I can read a room.
These people are impressed.
More than impressed—they're hungry.
I see phones coming out, photos being snapped, buyers leaning forward in their seats.
Dalla did this.
She's standing near the side of the runway now, watching her creations come to life, and there's something on her face I can't look away from.
Joy. Pure, unguarded joy.
I want to bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe. Make sure nothing ever takes it from her.
Christ. Get a grip.
