Ms. Birdie waved a jeweled hand like she was swatting away a gnat. “Don’t worry. She’s under strict orders to throw nothing. Not even a tantrum.”
He tensed. “Is she here?” How had he missed her?
“I may have givenher a very last-minute invitation,” Ms. Birdie said, her eyes the picture of feigned innocence. “She’s arriving fashionably late. Heavy on the fashionable.”
Suspicion bloomed like a stress rash. “Last-minute, as in you didn’t give her enough time to stage a dramatic exit when she saw my face?”
“You’re a quick study. I knew there was a reason I liked you.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “She’ll be front row. Direct line of sight.”
He tugged at his collar, already overheated. What in the hell was he thinking, showing up with a bow-tied bribe like this was a romcom movie? Frankie hated cheesy love stories.
Before Marcus could say more, a flash of attitude and a pop of color interrupted them.
“Well,” came a voice bright as a thousand paparazzi bulbs. “If it isn’t Broody McSuit.”
Ziggy arrived in a swirl of velvet, demanding attention.
“Darling,” he purred, his gaze zeroing in on Marcus. “You’re looking…” He paused, tilting his head. “Deliciously tortured. How delightful.”
“Ziggy, angel,” Ms. Birdie said. “Thank you for putting this together at the last moment.”
Ziggy preened, the tips of his fingers splayed on his chest. “Anything for my favorite boss’s boss.”
A crisp voice over the PA system cut through the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats. The show will begin momentarily.”
Ziggy offered Marcus an elbow. “Come with me, darling. Our seats are closer than scandal is to a headline.”
Marcus declined the elbow and followed Ziggy to the front row,the gift box on his lap suddenly ticking in his mind like a countdown clock.
And then the elevator chimed.
His spine straightened on instinct.
Frankie stepped out.
Everything inside him stopped.
Tonight, she was Frankie Peterson. Sharp, stunning, unapologetically herself. No wig in sight. Her dress shimmered under the moonlight, every curve perfectly devastating. Her chin lifted with lethal elegance, her gaze sweeping the crowd with the ease of someone born to own the stage.
Ms. Birdie appeared beside her, guiding her forward with the commanding grace of a CEO closing a high-stakes deal.
Within seconds of Frankie taking a seat, her gaze met Marcus’s. The danger in her eyes was sharp enough to leave a scar. But before she could erupt, the house lights dimmed.
Marcus blinked and shifted his focus to the stage—to Lola’s debut.
Over the next thirty minutes, spotlights tracked a procession of models down a minimalist runway, eachclad in streetwear transformed by sharp tailoring and Lola’s reclaimed glam. Every look was anchored by a pair of stilettos, rescued, repainted, and reborn into wearable art. The crowd’s buzz of approval crackled with electricity.
The final model emerged in a floor-length gown, the fabric catching the light with every step. Fragments of broken heels trailed down the back, a spine of defiance.
During all of it, Marcus felt Frankie’s presence burning against his skin, dragging every thought toward her. But he didn’t dare look her way.
And then, like the final flourish in a magician’s act, Lola stepped onto the runway and took the mic. “Thank you for coming,” she began. “And thank you, Ms. Birdie, for giving us this space. Tonight’s show is about reclamation: not just of shoes, but of identity, of safety, of story. A few months ago, I didn’t get to showcase my new line. Frankie Peterson threw a stiletto—and I say that with love—so that I wouldn’t have to throw away my career.”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd.
Marcus’s brows drew together, a flicker of confusion slicing through him. Had he heard right?
Frankie hadn’t thrown the stiletto in a fit of rage or ego. She’d done it for Lola. For her career.
